I Don’t Know How to Be a Witness
Neighbors said my name in the plot,
while I grew grubbier
inside the spreading shadow of the trailer,
grew larger by my absence to a bloodline,
grew older among the lizards, prehistoric
beneath the opening jaws of the gators,
hilarious to myself, planning to live off of stolen candy.
When I heard my name again,
the only time I heard fear in her voice,
like a mother who lost a child,
or a mother who was afraid that the loss of her child,
would expose intoxicants under mama’s pulsing scales,
a near and muffled humming
tickling the back of my neck.
Involuntary laughter, I shouted back.
while I grew bored
dirt grouting glass stained
cracks in a skinned elbow.
Unsympathetic shade and spider webs,
a baptism at four,
that concluded rashly
dragging ghosts with me,
by the ankles.