The ground outside is drinking rain slowly,
and I’m thinking of being young.
Chase and I were barefoot
and shirtless, ignoring
a hateful sky while we hacked golf clubs
at grass that endured
the hard work of growing.
When I pulled back the iron
and smashed his lips to his braces,
I believed
he and God were both crying
because of me.
I couldn’t tell the loose skin
in his mouth from pieces of the apple
we had pulled from a tree,
bitten and spit out for its bitterness.
After we took Chase home,
my mother whipped me
in the garage. We both cried
because it seemed like too much
to find space for on the rickety shelf
hiding under the staircase—
the lightning, the sound of metal against teeth,
the memory of breaking a body.
Originally published in Issue #32 (Spring 2016) of Forklift, Ohio
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