THE ART OF MISTAKE

Demetrius Buckley

Fifth graders huddled goose-like around an empty juice-box. We played pick-em-up-mess-em before first period, tumbled in the grass like weed baggies or stretched out condoms. His nappy head and mine: him lookin’ like Unc’, me looking like a father, while never knowing a father. Then suddenly he became one, and vanished into twilight like heat rising. Me, him, the wavy distortion of spirit. We dated the same girl: tall, glasses, left arm burnt which we said she got from reaching too far into the soul, where man is all lava churning. We joyrided in cars we stole strong-armed, her good arm hung out the busted window, sunbathing. What had us spent like shell casings was her pool of energy, so we threw hands by the orange lockers with hearts carved on them and initials under R.I.P. like song titles, not for her love or for bragging rights, but for how good of homies we were going to be in the future, sitting in the principal’s office complimenting each other’s right jabs and uppercuts. Your cousin turned out to be my right hand when I saw breath as a flaw. He told me I had to stand in for you—taller with lighter skin, my toothprint in your crooked knuckle like sleep marks in the morning—because the night before, you and your youngest brother had played a game, one bullet: spin, click, spin. Drunk off bumpy face after that girl we dated wanted out. Spin. spin. spin. Her arm digging. Click. click. click. Your youngest brother was only nine so you doubled your turn. Spin. click. click. spin. and he waited for the next. Click, click...