Young Writers Society

They say that this is the age when
you start thinking in images
rather than words. Here are some words:

“You shouldn’t have gone in there. What
happened to your clothes?” Leftover
pictures: On the wall, a woman’s

photo plastered above a bunk,
legs open. Other senses kick
in: The bouquet of soil threading

between the boards, a door closing
in the adjacent room, moist breath
on the small of your back. Recall

playing the rug on the hollow
floor, underlooking the gravel
road: Once there were others watching

with you; once there was a man whose
face is a thumbprint. Mostly you’re
alone, but there’s still that friendly

whitethorn scraping the window. They
bulldozed it while you were away,
to put up a yellow stable

for thoroughbreds. But the willow
which used to hide its façade is
still there. It’s next to the silo

where yellow striped spiders—you called
them “fiss-sized” in those days—consumed
and reconstructed their homes each

night. Remember abducting young
grasshoppers to rattle their webs?
In your picture-thoughts you marveled

at how quick that motionless X
became with a nymph smothered in
its silk. Their two jumper legs would

kick at the spiracles of their
aggressor’s; the four little ones
bent and curled like ungreased hinges.

You always had a chuckle or
two at their dance of creaks and moans.
More words: “Sometimes they got away.”