The name of the girl across the street
shone like copper.
In the apartment below
a teen with a Mohawk
was already imagining the bomb
that would explode his hand
into bloody petals.
When the leaves turned that year
the kids from the tenement
took turns jumping off the roof
of an empty house and called it flying.
I stood off to one side —
tried to explain the dangers
of broken things,
the treachery of glass.
The next day the boy with stitches
in a crooked line across his ass
would call me a witch
but that night
the neighborhood stray
found its way up the stairs
into my room — its fur wild
and warm against my face.
It was the beginning
of aloneness and of love
*
Originally published in Honey & Lime
About the Creator
Lori Lamothe
Poet, Writer, Mom. Owner of two rescue huskies. Former baker who writes on books, true crime, culture and fiction.
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