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Terrified we'd die happy and rich,
reclined at the lip of our shorefront properties,
we swiped a broad-axe from your dad's tool shed
and swore we'd seen a murderer or bear
stalking the dark coil of woods
behind our school. That's how desperate
we felt those days, how certain
we were there was nothing to see. You were the leader:
thirteen and over six feet. I was thirteen
but looked about seven, with parents who dreaded
those gothic letters thread into our hoodies.
Who could blame us for plugging our ears, tuning
them out? Still we craved being real
enough to vanish without a trace, our dour faces bound
to lamp posts, aged by a spot
on the local news. We fled that night with blades
and flashlights, fluorescent beams
slicing the trees. What's that? you whispered,
and whirled your axe towards a rabbit or squirrel.
What's that? we kept asking, our voices
rising, as if either of us could imagine
the answer to what we saw.

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Copyright © 2018 Jared Harél All rights reserved
from Go Because I Love You
Jared Harél
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission