How like us boys to carve a little spot
of light in someone’s grandpa’s field.
Pickups kicked up dirt, someone siphoned
gas for the bonfire. Pallets stacked past
the moon’s curled thumb, where we bit
at God’s kicking ankles. Shadows like decoys
in the night fields played tag with our youth.
I held down a pong table made of rotting
plywood, like my life depended on it. David
grossed out a group of girls by wiggling
the stump where his pointer finger used to be.
We were slow to act when we heard the gunshots.
The news the next day would report a young
boy, perhaps not even thirteen, was booted
from the party, so he drove up the road, lifted
his daddy’s rifle from the steel rack and fired
into the crowd. A bullet struck a girl,
who then drove herself to the hospital.
That night, we scattered into the uncut fields,
grateful for the season. Red and blue broke
through the stalks and cops looked
for their children first. We piled into
someone’s car, hoping they were sober
enough. At the checkpoint, eyes forward.
On the road out, Natty Lights rolled
around in the trunk like little bodies.