Cal once punched too hard
mid-play, so dad said I should nail him one back.
It was 4th of July in Virginia Beach.
One sand scoop later I stung, grains strewn
like pyrotechnics, my brother’s cheek bleached
by the crisp, beige stain. We were human.
Sometimes we crave something cruel
knocked in or dealt out,
silt or grit, passion free of compassion.
Force, like flags, keeps its hosts fed.
Much later, that first time a strange man
tells me to destroy him, I hesitate
at first. It’s as if he’d called me gorgeous
or my hands were someone else’s.
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