" In the Clear "
They lay the sandwich bag
onto the brick driveway.
Glistening through the plastic
are two dozen ticks, pulled
from the twitching back of their dog
like buttons from an old shirt.
The older brother begins-
Rolls an arched thumb
over the first greasy berry,
swollen ripe, grey skin
tight as a pumped football.
He presses down hard-
A pop, and a splatter of dog blood-
Wet tongues loll with delight,
bony shoulders jostle and clack
for a chance at the bursting.
Their small hands work the plastic,
kneading until their fingers ache.
When mother calls for dinner,
The younger one tosses the bag
into the neighbor’s garden,
Nothing left in it but
wrinkled raisin skins,
seeping messy juices.
The thought of it open and dripping
curls up evening appetites
the way fear curls up fists
And at the kitchen sink that evening,
small hands, though bloodless,
are scrubbed until they turn red.
© 2003 Graeme Mullen
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