My mother ran me across
the school quad, swearing
they would come for me
first. In a bag ziplocked
right to left across my lap
she had filled and Pentel-penned
three days worth of underwear
and a cordless telephone
from Pick ’n Save.
I could smell the manure
and saddle leather as we drove
down the 60.
She told me they wouldn’t
hesitate to lug me
by the back of my shirt,
to drag me over the front
yard like a bundle
of firewood. I cracked
the window, left shoe marks
on the motel sheets.
High on Astro Pops
and candy cigarettes,
she said, Now
your classmates will know.
Janine Joseph