Pull

A taunting wind tugs on your

skin like puppet strings,

Tying your fingertips to those of the

First person to spoon-feed you your own name.

Memory pulls out the rug,

Leaving you slipped on gravel-ripped palms,

And the red

Is the red of scared cheeks and brave mouths.

And copper coins spit from front pockets roll

Astray—little lights, winking.

Gravel-ripped palms—reaching.

You lost more than a few things to get here.