Memory

I think we called it
Bonner’s Hill or Bonner’s Mile 
because it seemed that long 
and he used to live there
though he died by the time we were 
old enough for the dirt bikes we 
pedaled to maximum speed
before the tuck and float all 
the way down helmetless
dodging potholes and loose gravel 
at the riverbend
where they found
the city girl no one knew 
in a pink fur vest
her head crushed in
we’d coast at the bottom for
a whole song on the Walkman 
after blasting through
the intersection of 3rd South 
a four-way stop arms out 
like the just
crucified
still ablaze with 
indignation
or like one liberated from
a cell that became a second mother 
womb-dark and scarce
of life-milk
scrounged from the end
of cocks and dreams 
dreams where she visited
where the dace and tadpoles flickered 
in a brook so clear you could
drink it from cupped hands 
you could lave it over
an infant’s mouth without fear 
who was it
dared the hill in blindfold
Eric or Derek or Jacob DeLain 
before their dad moved them for 
a factory job injecting plastics 
no, it was the train
before his dad fell asleep
on the rails, before the long howl 
and whatever it brings

Read more from Issue 20.1.