HORSE

H
Most of all, I fight with you over the least consequence. Boy-o, this is some kind of joke, I think, time speeding up so that the numbers jump in twos and threes. I turn the hotel alarm clock to the wall; thorny reminder.

You gonna come next to me?

I think I’ll stay here, I laugh.

I laugh and I go over anyway and lay down next to her, the familiar place; we lay like this long ago on the shores of a lake, whose name escapes me, devoured by mosquitoes. They’re so full the poor things can’t fly. Look, they’re walking home.

It was funny at the time, but the last things I needed were reminders. Nothing worked on those goddamned bites. I scratched for days until I decided to scratch them away, and scratched to no end and no good. The last things I needed, scars like reminders, scars for weeks, were reminders of not staying away.

Are you gonna come over? she asked, this time from Utah, I think.

No.

It’s your turn.

O
Scratches like reminders. I remember one time asking why he did it. Well, sugar, your mother hurt him, too. He showed me the scratches on his back. It was awful.

We have three firs in our yard, like Orion’s Belt, the first constellation I learned, while other children were converse in dippers and northern stars. Goddamned drunk of a fool; never explaining the lessons, not even expecting us to learn as we went. Just repeating whatever came to mind, and we were sometimes lucky enough to pick up the scraps. And sometimes not. Every now and again you read the news and hear a story about a child whose parents have died, taking care of his younger siblings under the radar of social services and off the grid; but you never heard about us. He was no different than that abandoned older brother to me and my sister. Yeah, older, sure. Well, there you have me.

What were you telling your grandma?

Scratches, like memories.

Goddamn it. Turn around.

R
We’re too ill adept at judging our own self-worth. We believe we deserve too little. And, rarely, too much. And still we take outside of our fair share, dipping into the community chest, replacing stolen whiskey with drops of tap water, even borrowing clothes.

Whose is this?

It’s mine.

I’ve never seen it before.

I just got it.

It looks worn.

Haven’t you heard? Everything old is new.

Don’t talk to me.

Watch the road. You’ll miss your turn.

S
I remember our science teacher, Mr. Sebaugh, teaching us about mixtures and combinations, how a little of something was fine, but too much led to fire. He squeezed two drops and nothing, pretty colors and calm waters. One more drop and a bang, smoke and flame. Formulas. We tried to get him to explain erasable ink pens, but he’d have none of it.

Those things don’t work. When you make an error, draw a single line through the word. Erasing it leaves a bigger mess than correcting the mistake.

It seemed to make so much sense, we repeated it when he got home, shooting baskets in the driveway.

I shoot. Brick. The ball bounces.

If you hit the car again, you're gonna eat that ball.

Your shot.

Nah. Come on, let's go play something else.

E
Words are borrowed, words are blue. She buys me a tiny journal and pays me a dollar for each poem. She noticed me scribbling rhymes, practicing really. My dog. The sunlight, and swimming.

I’ll give you a dollar for each one.

There are only so many dogs, no sunlight in the winter, and I had said everything I had ever wanted to say about swimming. I quit after the second one.

But tonight, words will be old, and words will be new. She spins the bottle and kisses me, because I’m the only boy around, but nonetheless, I’m the only boy around.

And years from now, I’ll step back and remember my place, dangerously close to pet names and improper endearments.

And years from then, it will all catch up, and maybe that’s when I’ll make my turn for the worse. I will have taken my fair share of shots; too little, and, rarely, too much.