first fish I ever caught in my throat bone regret
mother’s swim to shore
CW: Suggested sexual assault.
Nothing so dizzying as watching the summer sky speed by, on your back, barely cushioned by an old blanket spread on the ridges of your family friend’s pick-up truck. Want a ride home? Sure you do. Once you’re on your way, rocks ding the chassis below; you count thirteen, fourteen. You are thirteen, fourteen. The thick smell of mown hay, and now wild roses, swirls in as the truck stops. Where? You still don’t have to worry; youth makes half the world irrelevant. From the warm truck bed, you catch the quick-stitch of two chickadees flying by, and guess at the hour by the cooling air, the hour beyond when you might have been home. You hear the crunch of the driver’s door closing. You don’t know where you are yet. Your family friend’s big hands settle on the tailgate, prying it open, and his shadow looms over you. You sit bolt upright, the place pinpointed.
by browsing goats
Kit Pancoast Nagamura