all summer. the hardened grass
and wasps under the spirea
thorned our ankles full of poison. our
chins got sharper, we aged
away. our mothers were rat traps.
at night they filled their palms with black
beads from the doorways. when they turned
in their garden chairs even in moonlight we could tell
their eyes were blacker.
nicholas was the bravest, he stole two.
he would thumb them in the yard like prayer beads
and he died before middle school.
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