Among the pile of tires where we would hunt for snakes you showed me your new bruises. When I told you one of them looked like a buffalo on a bike, you flipped me off and climbed up the bank. It was Thanksgiving, and we were spending it like used dogs beneath the bridge that brought people in, or better yet, out of our town. We were kids inexperienced in the word impossible. Searching for cigarette boxes or other useful litter, you told me you wish you were a crayfish or anything else with a shell. I knew what you meant because I knew your father. Later, after we laughed about the pumpkin pie we were missing, you pulled a can of spray paint from your bag and asked me, Would you rather be unnoticed or strong? I fell silent by the creek and watched with awe as you painted in green against the buttress — LISTEN TO RAGE — MATTHEW MERSON
Matthew Merson is high school science teacher in the lowcountry of South Carolina where he lives and plays with his spouse, two kids, and several dogs. His other work can be found or forthcoming in Apocalypse Confidential; The Basilisk Tree; Poetry South; and others.