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
Renee Agatep writes of her rust belt beginnings but now lives in Florida. Their newest writing can be found in The Lascaux Review, CAROUSEL, and The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts. They are on Twitter @GoingbyRenee.