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Loose Feathers
By Matt Morris

News of a murder swept the streets & stuck
to my shorts. Pockets jangling

with change, I danced a crazy jig
to be free. Nowhere to go,

but my feet moved inexplicably
toward your house, dusk’s air

thick with the linens your mom
pressed in the kitchen, her steam iron

hissing. You didn’t know what I wanted, only
no baloney. Nothing

better than that, your mom liked
to say, smoothing the fabric

with her wrinkled hand, so that’s what we had,
nothing. In your backyard, the dead

or dying white-washed tree's
bark pulled off in clumps in our fists, & we flung

handfuls at the dark. What did we know
about anything? When your boozy uncle asked,

pinching our arms, we looked up,
pretending the dots of stars were nails

holding up the sky. It was just June,
I’d turned thirteen, you were my girl,

& there was nothing, nothing to do.