Three girls, lingering
over a park bench
Carving into its wood
Reckless with penknives
laughter and howls
They hold hands, palms slick
The day is hot, palm trees shift
Uneasy, embarrassed by
Their lack of shadow.
Two against one
Suddenly games forgotten
Lips upturned and taunting
Honing in on weakness
They lunge, sick with heat
Shining like wet horses
They lunge, sick with heat
Shining like wet horses
“Who knows what children fight about”
says an old woman, distant -
the palms shake, wild like tinsel.
