We were friends once,
before we sharpened scraps
from unfinished homes
at the dead end of Cypress.
We eyed ‘em true, those moldings,
those sharp stones dug from the creekbed,
those wires, thin and strong,
each the color of our choosing —
mine the striping of bruises,
yours the venom of snakes.
So proud and ballistic we,
makers of spears in the suburbs,
makers of smooth arcs, thuds
and honed penetrations bleeding out trees.
Such a glorious hunt, you in the underbrush,
me in the poisons hunched for a kill. Ah yes —
Do you remember? — We were friends once,
before I struck your leg, before we carved
our woods into games and nations.