Vol 13, Num 14 :: 2014.07.11 — 2014.07.24
At the age of ten, I watched
my anger fly in one swift motion to the concrete wall
and land with a sickening split down its middle.
They heard me say shit
and then each took their own turn
saying the word that leapt like a spooked cat
from the pursed lips of their older sister.
It rolled, delicious, from Kristinʼs tongue
with the ease and innocence
of a four-year-old.
And hopped tentative from Sheaʼs
as she sought to make a joke of the scene.
But neither knew the art of wrapping the word
with both rage and regret and then spitting it
on the floor
like a bad taste.