On break, I walk the dirt trail behind the library branch and sneak a smoke. There’s some wild blackberry brambles back here, too. I pick some berries off and annoy some birds because they want what I have; I want what they have; we’re all some sort of screwed up animal with a weak wing. Have you ever tried hiding your hurt spot in a crowd? Once, I remember seeing these girls crouching down in body-shield mode in the gym during Battleball. They huddled and hunched and covered their faces to protect their glasses. Zach Theus and Robbie Naylor began launching heatseekers at their ankles. For the life of me, in this brief light in the forest, I cannot remember their names, but I do remember their matching unicorn t-shirts and yellow denim shorts. Two of them got hit out and there was just the youngest who bent down to tie her shoe, young neck in full-defeat. Why were the teams so unbalanced? Why didn’t Whitaker blow the whistle? I felt bad, so I rolled the one remaining girl a ball so she could use it for a shield, but when she reached to scoop it, Elliot Donaldson threw a sidewinder so hard at her face it broke her glasses. She slumped over on the hardwood. I think her name was Shelby. The next day, our school was stampeded by Unicorns Seeking Vengeance—they pierced all the dumb boys in their guts and that’s how I got this scar. I walk back to the library’s back door and scan my ID to scoot through the storage hallway. Last night I got drunk and dropped acid at a fire pit with some dudes I met at the gas station beside Chance Mart. I bought them Nutterdingers and asked if they had a bag. One guy had a melting smiley-face on his hoodie and the other two had on Headless Virgin All-Star basketball jerseys, so I figured it was time to swing for a dinger. You guys tryna slam dunk a bag or nah? If you ask the right questions, you get fancy answers. I love when it’s time to start raging like a Cajun. They let me get in their truck and we took off. I left my car at the station and had to walk here this morning before I drove to work. It was brutal; I saw three roadkills. Brains, teeth, tubes—when we get hit, all our shit goes kaboom. Holy smokes, I just realized: there’s a Nightingale cigarillo still zipper-pouched, leftover from last night in my jacket pocket. Mercy, Josie. God’s a brochacho, I swear; he gets me when I pray. I take the blunt to the potty and drag my thumbnail against the gut line. All the tobacco falls into the toilet water; it’s a clean break, finally. Only the stickiest icky for this blizzy, my dog. I want to juke this workday out of its sneakers and leave it ankle-broken at half-court as I run to the rim and just score and score and score—
— FORREST RAPIER
Forrest Rapier has published poems in dozens of literary journals across the country, including Asheville Poetry Review, Best New Poets, Denver Quarterly, and Greensboro Review. His debut collection, As the Den Burns, was published by Texas Review Press in 2022. His illustrated chapbook, Zeitgeist Cha Cha, is forthcoming with Contagioso Press. He lives in Tallahassee, Florida.