By Renee Agatep
two gentle orbs
nestled in a fallen thatched bowl
found beneath the canopy
of a Douglas Fir’s lowest limbs
the neighbor girl
wanted me
dared me to
crush it in my palm
so easily I chose, and
she looked satisfied
before leaving me
cross-legged in the pines
my father’s whistle, his hand
in his teeth, I ran from that
mattress of needles,
smearing the shell
shattered in my hand –
but the rot
permeated the pores,
filled the beds
of my fingers, soaked the smooth
surface of uncracked flesh, and
i never did manage.
to get the stain out
i never did manage
to wash it away
This poem originally appeared in Bending Genres. Photo by Mateusz Stępień on Unsplash
Renee Agatep 