Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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The Lost Boys

On Christmas Eve my aunt falls
on me for support, vodka tongued
and weepy. Her boys are gone,

lost to powders, to guns. I picture her
in court, wrecked after the sentencing,
helpless to drive safely anywhere.

As kids we played cops and robbers
in grandma’s backyard, dodged
rocks with bare feet. How swiftly

we alternated roles, how greedily
I reached for the gun, emptied
BBs into leaves at my cousins’ feet

and dreamed of aiming higher.  

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