the summer we were twelve
lorraine jones
deer-faced
chipped from born-again clay
led me up the back stairs
on rainy afternoons
to read harlequin romances
once she showed me
her parents' bedroom
recited their ritual
beds scraping
born-again groaning
it makes me sick she said
evenings we walked on down
to jones's pond
past the red fox
pacing at the end of his dusty chain
past the poisoned corn
dead crows
baited traps
down on down to jones's pond
at the bottom of the
wet black forest
it just makes me sick she said
and we slipped in
thin-legged girls
to swim