Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Thirty-eight Summer 2015 |
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HANDS OFF K. A. Wisniewski They aren’t friends, just big kids who like to see the show, who like to see the drama, the explosions, someone else’s hurt feelings spread across the lawn. But I persisted, and these were the days when it was hard to get explosives. It was worth the anticipation: the idea of the blast, the noise. M-80s, cherry bombs, breaking out of themselves. A couple of pumps of the air rifle. I asked them to shoot me with my own bb gun so that they’d laugh and we’d be friends. And there was the rush of breaking in, hopping fences, stealing sulfur and nitrate from Mr. Tom’s shed and charcoal from my dad’s back porch. Filling up a shampoo bottle. Blowing up a letterbox. Lighter fluid burns quicker I kept reminding myself. Next week I could light my new coat on fire and roll down the hill and watch everyone applaud. I was floating alcohol on the water and became scarred and bruised with hands that never worked the same again. But that summer I had friends. |
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