HUNTED

FISAYO ADEYEYE

 
 

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.
 

 

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