It feels like another survival, the boy’s mouth

soft around pieces of breadfruit. Machete

sound cutting into the branches in the trees

outside the school. In ten years there will be

no way to catalogue this feeling, but

for now there are still those bent bridges,

those phantom bird calls through

Neighborhood Park. Boy drops a half-eaten

orange and it feels like an answer, or a

signal: a pair of yellow eyes pace him in

the dark. Boy stifles a scream by pushing a

whole fist inside his mouth.