Fox River
Allison Eir Jenks
Fenced in at Fox River.
Committing nonsense;
splitting worms, tossing berries.
Twisted within candy trees.
Wedged under your callused chest,
chanting with the bark of the starved coyotes.
You lie to me. I bite your shoulders.
We cut down a tree and licked the roots.
A bullet of snow snaked its way down my chest.
You left it there, smirking with pleasure,
diving at the chilled spot.
You paved my fingers.
Placed granite rocks under my head.
My eyes were stained glass windows.
Over there, on the side of the foot bridge,
beer signs sit on the river like fishing lure.
A curly, red-haired boy
blows a wreath of bubbles off the bridge.
They rise by the protruding brick cross.
I think of when I met you
by Mr. Crayton's grocery store
With lollipop stains,
your blue tongue flagged me down.
