As a child I’d go
beneath the cherry tree to
cry and wipe my nose in the leaves,
feeling like a dew drop
in the pooled summer night.
One time I saw a fox
in my place.
I’d stand still a meter off
in the shrinking shadow of
the tree,
close to dawn.
Crouched between the knotted roots,
clenching the damp dark soil in each paw.
Our yard poured into the empty street
that wound its way around the
rusted skeleton of an unused basketball hoop.
All wiry
Muscle and
Brass.
I treaded lightly
Through branches and wind.
A small rabbit dangled limply in
his jaw.
My cheeks got chapped and dry.
I’d stare long and quiet at the night,
No more than a handful of
bloodied bits, in reds, grays and white.
Till Momma would crack the porch door
and
whisper me
back home.