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The Bum Woods, 1961
The boys spit. It made them boys.
Along with sticks and Tarzan yells.
They journeyed into the deep woods
where hoboes could be seen.
Girls only went so far,
hair covered in babushkas,
rumor of bats.
The long dull heat. Run cold water
on your wrists, my mother said.
But that was boring.
Time was a sluggish, muddy river.
We let hours go by sitting on porches,
the click of locusts punctuating our languor.
We scoured the cracks in sidewalks
for dimes to buy orange Dreamsicles.
Up three blocks to the store beside
a grotto, Blessed Mother tucked in the rocks
as if waiting for the right passer-by
deserving of a miracle.
I was in love with TV men. I wrote
stories on lined green paper and still
believed in God. Behind locked doors,
I marveled at the place where my tan
met the startling white skin,
hoping it would stay, like last year,
all the way till Christmas.
Mercedes Lawry (Click for bio.)