I am Questionable and Warm to the Touch

by makenzie peterson

Sometimes I wish I was still out there in the valley, dropped down in the sand with the buried beer cans and broken glass on the river bend. I miss the boys bouncing on their heels, clapping dust into the air.

I miss watching those bones lay down and swing around and twist when they walk. I want to lay in the smell of them, in the sweat & tobacco of them. I can’t keep my eyes off the unsettling skin of young men, the space peeking from the stretched hemline, pulled over hip bones and bones I don’t know the names of.

I want to watch them eat, I want their fingers in my mouth and at my throat. I miss the river bend because it is where the wild animals play out their hot days and today it is hot.

I miss them like I miss milk and rug burn. When the boys are in my head they are loud and painful and perfect. They slip through my fingers like the sand under your feet. They trick me sweet without even looking into my eyes.