Something I wrote ten or twelve years ago


At night my brother and
I sneak out to pull
ties from the tracks.

Look for rope
in the mighty black
toolbox, it towers
fierce over my frame,
rust like a whisker
scars the garage.

In the first drawer scabs
skitter over P's hand
skinny red welts break out
earwigs by the thousand
march past the elbow.
We scream, shake, stomp
until our bare feet
are slick with grease.

In the second drawer bottle
between blue ice packs
I take a sip
and let the saliva
drip thin as fishing

In the third drawer screwdriver
check hammer check drill check.

Rope - check.

Twelve years later laying in a tent at Sleeping Giant:
an earwig crawls
beside her and
I take my thumb and kill it.

No comments:

Post a Comment