by Jen Hawkins
2nd Place, Poetry, Create | Encounter 2019
When you take the boy,
take my bones, she said.
So they made a key of his cry, and out
trilled her spine like a xylophone. Out
went her arms like kite sticks,
no strings.
Around his neck, a raisiny collar. The rest
slung behind, frown-upside-
down,
crucified Peter or toothless bat.
She was his pale windsock, his vanishing
twin, not the noose but the
slack
not the hand at the cradle but the hushed glove
inside.
She whispered tales of gum-stuck under-
bellies and noble under-
dogs. Promised
to be his Superman cape.
And at night, he kicked off the blankets, that she might see the stars at his feet.