Poetry

Twelve-Year-Old on Trammell Street Runs Away

In the yard backflipping, crazy

dogs making nests at ankles.

The grasshoppers tell you to pick up

after dragging sneakers through mulch just laid.

And did I tell you about the tent? Pitched to the side

no one knows where it came from, and I bet

if you looked close enough you could hear

the grass sing. As dogs exchange teeth,

you become a string band:

a tangle of swells and stomping

the sweet smell of melting mint.

Remember nights on the ground

building homes in grandmother’s wrinkles.