A Poem a Day Keeps the Zoloft Away

The sharp fall

fell into our flared

nostrils

as we split squirrel

skins and threw

squirrel kidneys at

each other in jest,

cutting off fluffy trophy

tails to nail,

smearing warm red

onto ruddied cheeks,

making ourselves into

warriors from past

times,

trying to fill out the shoes

and shirts our mothers

had bought for us

in forethought,

slapping arms and

making jokes with

meanings only our

drunken fathers knew

the secrets to,

being drunk ourselves

on childhood’s cusps.

#326