Mall parking lot becomes dodgeball court, 2 vs 20.
Opposition’s fitted sheet fingers cover king-size stones.
Boys’ backs clamp against the storefront window.
Their propeller limbs swatting, foreheads pouring blood
and sweat like broken soda dispensers.
Spectators flaunt their yellow-corn teeth,
as they sing Boom Bye Bye; supporters
whispering invocations and protective medleys.
Not once did the boys cry out for God.
Police wait for the whiff of oak coffins
before they whisk the boys away in their Jeep;
and the names of all the girls I crush on at school
clank like crockery, 11-year-old-me vows to avoid
bursting lips and wailing skin.