Behind the playground, up in the dark woods,
lives a man, my classmates say, who’ll eat us
if we stray there. I’d pay to see that, as
long as it isn’t me he eats. Maybe
Bucky Haggard, who picks on me, or
the little girl who sits behind me and
whispers in my ear how much she loves me.
Yuck. (I turn around and say to her, I
love me, too, but I don’t say so in class.
She cries. You’re just confusing me, she says).
When the kickball rolls out into the woods
I’m always the one to rescue it. I
disappear, sometimes, and make them all wait
and fear that I’ve been eaten. Or, I throw
the ball back in–it tears through the bushes I
sneak behind the growth to the other end
of the field and toss it in there, sometimes.
Or I scream and laugh, in different voices,
first my own, of course, and then my father’s
or some other dangerous old man’s. But
I always reappear–I don’t believe
in any danger that isn’t my own
making; I’m just mature like that; even
scary movies don’t frighten me too much
and nothing’s much worse than the TV news
every evening, when we all sit around
and watch the box to see just how evil
the world really is. They should bump me up
to second grade, with the older children.
One day the ball will sail into the woods
and I’ll go to retrieve it but I won’t
come back, ever–will seek out that old man
and his cave or cottage or lean-to or
hovel, and challenge him. Then he’ll return,
with the ball. They’ll see him staggering from
the woods and walking out, a bloody nose
and a black eye or two, and telling them
There’s a new king of the macabre now.
Then he faints and falls and probably dies
among them, standing in a circle and
seeing what it is all children come to
sooner or later. And if they find me
out I’ll pick my teeth with their bones, except
for the girl who sits behind me. My queen.