Scouts
There was a boy even stranger than I waswho’d call me in the eveningto see if I’d come to Scouts. Something in mehesitated. Then one morning
during eighth grade English we got hall passesand did it in a stall in the bathroomtaking turns over the john,as thrilling as clumsy.
We kept our secret.But he came to seem a targetaround that one-light town. The cut of his hairor the way he laughed, or maybe
his jittery hunched-up walk.For a while he went on calling meto see if I’d go with him to Scouts.Instead I learned: treat him low
or be treated so myself.Once in Art while the others snickeredI planted tacks across his chair,and he sat down and shot up so quick
the chair sprang backwards, a few silver tacksstill sticking in his rear, his roarlike…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2023