Duck, Duck, Don’t Look

Duck, Duck, Don’t Look

There is a game we played as children

behind the tanks, past the rusted swings,

where the grass grew high enough

to hide a small body.

Duck, duck, goose.

Only we never said goose.

We sat in a circle, knees muddy,

hands folded like good little prayers,

while someone walked behind us,

soft-footed, breathing through their teeth.

Duck.

A finger on the crown of your head.

Duck.

A shadow passing over your shoulder.

Duck.

And you knew, before the word came,

that the thing behind you was choosing.

No one turned around.

That was the rule.

The first girl who looked back

forgot her own name by dinner.

Her mother called and called,

but she only smiled at the wall

and tapped three fingers

against the kitchen table.

Duck. Duck. Duck.

We laughed because children laugh

when fear has no proper shape.

We laughed with our mouths shut.

Years later, I still feel it sometimes

in supermarkets, hospital corridors,

in the blue hush before sleep

that patient little, circling,

that pause behind my spine.

The air goes thin.

My scalp remembers

a fingertip that is not a fingertip.

Something bends close enough

to smell of wet bark, old milk,

and the inside of a toy box

left shut for years.

It does not speak first.

It waits for me to understand

that the game never ended,

that I only grew too tall

for the circle.

Some nights, my own shadow

falls wrong on the wall.

Some nights, the dog will not enter the room.

And then comes that whisper,

almost fond,

almost childish,

duck,

duck,

and I stand perfectly still,

because whatever waits behind me

has kept count

of every time

I nearly turned.