My sister and I have always loved smashing bottles.
It’s the pop and reckless
combustion of physics in our ears
that draws us to the pavement
with arms like starter slingshots.
Glass flies remarkable
from the top of the slide.
There is a song behind the bang
that can only be felt.
Glass flies like it is returning
It is how we fling ourselves
small and fragile, from the woodchips
into the cracks.
When an old woman,
face wrinkled as the concrete, hurls us
questions from her third-floor
balcony, they hit with a pop louder
than opera, louder than fun,
and settle dusty
in our ears.
should never be the job
of the young.