lives down
the same hill he lived down
when we were friends. index fingers shooting
massive boobs through a monster truck tee.
duck tail flicking
above his forehead and his talk of duck
dynasty, which my mom said was nasty. [but wasn’t everything
                                                                           with boys nasty?]

promising to write
at age eight. you can promise anything
if you’re leaving, but i meant it
until i didn’t. now a metal box of a jaw
and full lips and paintings of swollen
women. i’m afraid of him

and his doorbell. i’m afraid
of how differently i’ll see
the world in another ten years. i veer off
the sidewalk
during my night prowls.