Sick Behind School And I Saved Her

In the tenth grade I found you hanging on to the bumper
of some girl’s car, with a flexing back and vomit all on you.

We were sweet to each other despite the circumstance. I took
your pinkies into my pinkies and made a promise with our heads

close together. There was music all over the place, that’s what
most people remember, but we felt, we said, like very small

round dots in the middle of a perfectly white page. Every other
sentence started with she, and, with noise like paint-dripped

over a picture book, I can now only recount what was shown
in the corners. Birds flying and calling mystery. A mangley veined

leaf and surrounding greenery. Etc. Still clear are the cuffs
of your very long jeans worn hard, the dirty words you uttered

into the back of a tire, and your bottom lip dropping soft as a promise
when I made it laugh.