Schwinn
by Tai Campbell
But for now,
he’ll grip the iceball with three fingers, wincing,
slightly, as the crystals tighten his flesh.
He’ll throw,
making sure to put a spin on it.
She’ll tumble over her handlebars,
shoulders raised as if to say:
What next?
The ace of spades her father clipped between
the spokes last 4th of July,
still clicking.
We take off down the hill.
Howling.
Twisting against the winter rays of butter.
The boy trips over his frayed shoelaces.
He squints up.
Smiles.
Blood, bright,
trickles through his broken teeth.
Tonight,
he’ll wash his mother’s feet,
making sure to get the suds in between her toes
as she blows cigarette smoke
into his hair.
She won’t notice
his newly gapped grin.
And he’ll remember the strange sound
the girl made as she hit the pavement.
Almost like a sigh.