“So there it is,” she said,
then ordered me to touch it.
“Don’t be a pussy,” she said
I reached out my hand to
the motionless body
lying face-down in the creek
that ran behind our school,
its head smashed open
like a partially deflated basketball.
I felt as if I was standing before
something old and important:
an abandoned hospital
the trees were the patients
sick and alone with each other.
My hand hovering
above, trembling
(a deep resonance,
the dying of a bass note)
before laying it to rest
almost a caress.
Colder than I ever thought
a body could be, wet
like a sponge
and young,
younger than us.
“I can not believe you just did that,” she said,
and ran away laughing.
Couldn’t stop smelling my
hand all the way home,
almost sweet, almost
like playing with a sore in your mouth, a
loose tooth.
The front door is locked,
knock and my mother looks curious
when she answers, blocking
me from entering. I
try to step by but
she stops me.
“Excuse me,” she says,
“do I know you? ”
Her face is a haunted house,
her eyes
the windows
with drawn curtains.