By Elizabeth Acevedo
it was always the older kids
running to Riverside,
hiding behind trees and underneath
jungle gyms, holding their breath
in the darkness as the other team
tried to find them.
I could not wait to be old enough;
a captor’s arms clasping.
Manhunt, manhunt 1, 2, 3.
the compass in a different direction:
perhaps commentary on police
or the assaults
that happen in the dark
when children play games
while adults sip beers and
summer unrolls a carpet
into the worst of memories.
But no. Sometimes
being honest means offering
more than one draft.
The game was
a different kind of winning:
the chase about the waiting,
wanting to hear a
countdown softly whispered
as the July air
stuck our baby hairs
to our necks, and everything
was playful in the damp.
Source: Poetry (February 2021)
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