Pick Up Sticks

..

One, two
Grab your shoes,
we’re about to head out
into the forest. And there are
wolves.

Three, four
Shut the door. The
boogeyman comes out
……..(hungry, quiet)
after darkest night. And we
just might fool him
into thinking we’re lost.

Five, six
Pick up sticks. Walk
soft, be still. These are the
colors of our childhood, the
sharp edges of our adolescent
storms.

Seven, eight
The path ain’t straight. It’s
crooked, gloriously tired in its
sorry spill. We’re never growin’
up and we’re brave enough to
stumble, smart enough to fill
our pockets with tiny sticks
and stones.

Nine, ten
Broken bones. Again, again.
This is our secret graveyard, the anti
-thesis of our ghosts of thought. We
are the haunters of these here woods,
born of fire and found in glimpse
of moon.

Soon, we shall banshee
our un
-forgiven hearts,
call it a day.

And let those sticks
fall
where
they
may.

 

 

..
In November, we poem. 

 

 

 

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