Boys with swords


in the forest. One is wood,
flames painted

to the hilt. Dry October,

of the papery eucalyptus.
One of them swings,

one of them ducks.
Wood on wood,

fracture in the line of fire.
It feels good

to hold a blade, I know.
Somehow cleaner

once you let it go.
Today they split nothing,

though not for
want of trying.



Lisa Gluskin Stonestreet xxxx