Start ‘em Early

“my gosh, my gosh”

there’s a white bug eating at the half-runners when

gargles of language trip from the mouth of her.

it might scream, might say “my gosh, my gosh” from

between the puckered flesh of her fingers, but she takes no notice.

she gets to work with rocks, rocks, one shiny in a mean way

so that it glares at her as she grabs for the second, nicer and

red like oxheart tomatoes ripening on her left.

there’s a thrum in her little arm as it raises and she thinks of how she

likes to press her blubber of cheek against the back glass door during

the first spats of thunder.

the little bug is dead, white and punctured by pressure as

her fingers know no kindness but she lifts the ruddy rock anyway and she is

five, three years too young to know organs can pop!

like lightning. when the rocks bump heads and burst bright orange insults in

response she giggles and releases the white splatter of little starvation and

has no reason to believe she’s missed.

“my gosh, my gosh” and she’s seen another.

Genesis