Elementary
Douglas S. Jones
We taught ourselves how to hit and how to take it,
how to steal machetes from the hardware store.
Weekends, we threw bottles at the janitor’s lame dog. We taught
ourselves how to smoke stolen grass on the church lawn while bats
flicked out from the cottonwoods.
Some of us knew we were insects
dumbed by the moon. Some of us wrapped
our hands tight around the teacher’s neck.
Our pants were greased and ripped by the shattered windows
of abandoned buildings.
We all knew how to bleed.
We set fires, spit on the flag-draped cross.
We learned to die every day,
hoping each time would be the last.
featured in the Summer 2013 issue
Douglas S. Jones
We taught ourselves how to hit and how to take it,
how to steal machetes from the hardware store.
Weekends, we threw bottles at the janitor’s lame dog. We taught
ourselves how to smoke stolen grass on the church lawn while bats
flicked out from the cottonwoods.
Some of us knew we were insects
dumbed by the moon. Some of us wrapped
our hands tight around the teacher’s neck.
Our pants were greased and ripped by the shattered windows
of abandoned buildings.
We all knew how to bleed.
We set fires, spit on the flag-draped cross.
We learned to die every day,
hoping each time would be the last.
featured in the Summer 2013 issue
