Mean Little Boys

There are mean little boys playing in the alley
outside my bathroom window. I hear them negotiating-
vicious politicians warring over who will get to be the next
Anakin Skywalker and it's serious business.

I imagine their thick necks and stubborn lips, the saliva
dripping from their haughty mouths as if to say:
I am learning the steeling game; I crave red meat.
All the deadly sins hanging off eyelash tips.

And suddenly I remember the whistling teakettles-those girls,
learning to be hot at age eight, batting their curly-Qs, swinging
upside down on the monkey bars to expose bright red panties.
Double braids slapping their pink necks. Wanting the out of reach,
wanting the secret of a boy's touch-the skin on skin of it.
Before red smeared in the water of our toilet bowls.

-Lisa Araujo Davis

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