I could break your back with my twelve year old hand. Police station gets a call. Can they hear Chris Whitley’s song at 59 decibels? Chris Whitley, he’s dead now. I could stab your brain and kill you too.
Among those brown-faced change chasers. On piss-stained cobblestone. Mis pantalones. Hanging from a rusty shower rod.
Water balloons in my eyes pop and spoil Mom’s nice blanket. Mucus too. Please unlock this door. This isn’t funny anymore or at all. Covered in sirens, I only hear red and blue.
A bluebird got stuck in the drain. Came home to a bathtub full of my family. Mom’s turkey sandwich, Dad’s chocolate-covered pretzels. I had never seen the color brown before. Oh, my cheesy hot dog.
My breath must have smelled like mustard and meat after Allison’s party but you grabbed my mouth anyway. Grabbed my mouth and didn’t let go. Didn’t matter that it was mine. Willing to steal anyone’s spit at 3 A.M. We’re graduating in five hours and I’m unbuttoning my pants in your basement. You haven’t done this in so long, I know, and I pretend you want me grabbing you like I am. Later your mom takes pictures in our blue caps. We fake smiles. Your mom was nice.
Stare at me in a white tee and underpants. I could blind you with my nail-bitten fingers. The men in navy with hairy arms hand me a pen. Mom’s going to be so mad that they’re tracking mud through her kitchen. They tell me to write so I impress them with my perfect G’s. Letter J’s like licorice. Greatest story ever written.
Is the blue ink dry? Eighty feet of metal for the wayward bluebird. Pushed out the drain by a plumbing snake. Mom cries. Bleaches so I can be clean for school this morning.
Watches as I finish the police report. Does he think Chris Whitley is singing when he leaves the home? She holds me. It’s going to be okay, baby, she cries. Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.
I know it’s going to be okay. But did they like my story?
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