Of the Myriad
Nothing seems to be as depressing as
reading articles about child prodigies.
Yet, we call them remarkable
in place of the depressing truth implying
that others mustn’t be anything more
than specs of the myriad.
I knew a child “prodigy.” My seven-year-old
classmate, giving her birthday gifts
to children on another continent.
My mother mentioning this to me,
watching the glint of a fading
star, as I kept my gifts.
I do not know if I mistook my
mother’s hopes like I mistook
my classmate’s, who cried as
her mother took her gifts and
shipped them away. It was
her mother’s boasting that I heard.
What caused us to spin each other’s
dreams on impossible fabric, making
the cause of our unhappiness
the pursuit of it? Why do we lower
the humble myriad below the few
we uphold? To judge ourselves?
I read about child prodigies with
caution, knowing that we embolden
ourselves with false words of pride,
but am affected all the same.
Compared to the grandiose,
we are specs in the myriad.
Michael Trask was born in Seattle in 1998, and continues to live there, where he attends Seattle Academy of Arts and Sciences in his senior year. His poems take on his cynical perspective, bluntly stating many of the brutal honesties found both in his own life and of those around him. He certainly does not shy away from subject matter, even from those things which are better left unsaid.