Transit

Fourth grade frightened I carried a stick to the bus stop
and swung it like a mace,
stabbed the empty stomach
of an Asian chestnut
and topped that haft with spines.

Three towns over another backpacked child
had the ham-soft tip of his thumb snipped off
by a rabid raccoon.
They only come out in the day
if they’re sick. Weeks of gut-punch needle-pricks

or for one bright morning before the choke and the spit
and the frantic body strung to the air
with elastic bands, I could
walk brazen through sunlight
to piece apart the world in clever little hands.