A little boy stands ankle-deep
in wet leaves near the edge
of the woods. A maple leaf
clings to the divot of his left knee,
stuck there by its wetness. His blue
shorts are ringed in white
and his tangled brown hair runs
in dark vines across his forehead.
The glistening of his finger tips reminds him:
there was that time, out back, standing
on the hood of a red chevrolet,
lifting a baseball bat high into the air.
The sound of the bat bouncing off the glass
was insignificant. His hands absorbed
the shock, a stinging running up along
his fingers into his wrists. The windshield
broke five swings later, splintered and
cracking like chips of ice in slow-motion.
It was worth noting how quiet it was.
In the middle of a deserted lot littered
with the husks of cars, owned and loved,
not a single bird went exploding into the sky.
He picks the black leaf from his knee,
thinks about what his sister must have looked like
holding her new daughter close to her chest
like a football, the father,
her ex-husband, smashing his way
through the webbing glass with his bare fists.
What sound did the glass make that night,
with his screaming sister and her
cannon hands blasting the ignition with
misdirected keys?
With the screaming police-men and their
flashlights flitting among the trees?
With the stars winking like devil cats
in vast blackness?
With the shrill wailing of a baby
too young to know anything but
the terrible noise of it all?
2 years ago