they were thirteen and seventeen. bad
ages. birds always fell from the branches
when the little one was around. not dead.
dazed, they’d mull about the ground till
the child walked away. her older sister,
no better. she had four guys
hanging off all last summer. now?
gone. where’d they go? no one can say.
in martin’s busted treehouse, we had a fright.
hearing some story one night:
poggy had said he saw one of them missing boys
the other day, off sweet mouth rd. the tall
brother. he was standing outside a gas tank,
staring into a patch in the dirt. car passed
and he was gone. poggy had stopped telling
the story. a thump gave him the interrupt.
some grackle falling outta the tree. shit, shit,
we all scattered down the ladder. birds
dropping meant the little one was near.