Who Has All The Answers Knows This
Rack one left for each thing killed:
and uncountable minnows and earthworms,
those throw-backs, those urchins, those clubbable quicksilvers.
during a downhill race, who, at first, everyone
for fifteen feet, your face a mess of berry-colored blood
who looked cut in half, even though the skin hadn't broken.
who used to own him, thinking stupidly, the hardest part
hardening in the arms, gash on your cheek so perfectly etched
between lips of skin-- But you did not feel it,
of the door swinging open by the lady now framed
all you felt was the sinking of her eyebrows, like a ship,
You hadn't had a word since you lost the race, like your voice
the bike home after in the silence of your uphill breathing
watching our mother pick at you with a needle;
aimed straight inside the core of you, the place where a boy