My street looks like a ruined garden–
all the treetops are split at the top
and none of the buds are the right shade of green
and the sky is all dark with the promise of rain
but maybe the sky is a liar
and maybe I’ve never been so quick to trust before.
It’s like smoke, the sky, but not the thin beautiful smoke I love.
Like the hazy smoke of a forest fire
all destructive and sinister,
stalking its prey like a fox or a shark,
or some senseless murderer on a dark musky night.
The house across the street has always looked like a face
and I swore it was haunted
back when no one lived there
and the walls were papered with pictures of strange faces
and a boy would ride his red bicycle outside when you weren’t looking.
But I saw him.
And he saw me in that watchful room,
as he rode by out of the corner of my eye,
listening to the sound of our malicious innocence.
I always knew we had killed him.
-Kaitlyn Medina [4/25/09]