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Darian Kuxhouse

password: greenlight

my legs propelled

me past Doug,

who left 3 valentine cards

on my desk in the

middle of April, spraying

them with his father’s musky

cologne, a scent that wouldn’t

wash off my fingers.

my legs drummed

the ground,

rolling heel to toe,

gaining traction until

Sammy yelled,

“red light!”, forcing

my feet to stick to dirt,

leaving me leaning,

arms splayed,

the playground’s favorite

balancing act,

and I couldn’t have known

that Doug would trip me

with his clod feet,

forcing my face to

the carpet of our

second-grade classroom,

couldn’t have known

that my email would

one day end with .edu

and that my sneakers

would be traded in

for books, that Doug

would be traded in

for Samantha, whose

woody vanilla perfume

clung to our pillows.

library session has expired.

Fall, 2016 Issue