The berries are poison berries, the boy said.

What kind of poison?

Bad kind.

How do you know?

Mom told me.

Dare me to eat one?

Yup.

It don't taste like poison.

What does poison taste like?

Worse than this.

I want some.

How poisonous is it?

Mom says it'll **** you.

Then why'd you eat one.

I want to go to heaven.

I thought they were a little poison, like make you **** funny poison.

I figure if I want to make it to heaven this is the only way.

I can't believe this. You didn't say anything—

Bible says all children go to heaven because they is innocent.

I'm going to throw up. You just put your finger on your tongue, right?

Further back. To the tonsil thingy.

It's not coming. I can't. I can't. This—I didn't feed the dogs.

Don't worry about the dogs. We're going to heaven.

Bible doesn't say that.

Preacher does.

Well.

Preacher said it's impossible for a rich man to go to heaven, pretty tough for a fat man—on account of the way being so narrow—and just plain hard for everyone else. The only one guaranteed is kids.

I haven't even kissed a girl.

You're not missing much.

I've only kissed Mom.

Yeah. She kisses okay.

What if the kids aren't innocent?

Kids are always innocent.

I feel funny.

Me too.

But what about kids that do bad stuff?

Like?

You know, fighting and cussing and stuff.

They don't know better. Free ticket to heaven.

Huh.

My tummy is making put-titter-put noises.

What if a kid slayed another kid? You know thou shalt not slay.

I didn't slay you.

I'm just asking.

I wouldn't slay.

You didn't tell me these berries would **** me. Seems the same as slaying me.

Throw up.

I tried.

Let me help you. I ain't losing my free ride.

Geez. You're hurting me.

Throw up.

I can't.

I'm going to punch you.

Don't punch me.

Throw up.

You punched me.

I'm going to do it again.

No.

Throw up.

You punched me again.

Let me try cramming my fingers down there again.

Ow.

If God chalks this up to slaying.

He will.

I'll find a way.

A way?

To heaven.

Rain on tin
the pang and elasticity of
time and the time it
takes nature to sway
from right to left
from outer to inner
to notice the girl
on the edge of the room
with a drink in her hand
and then there's that
old lightning, self-proclaiming
its importance to the
gymnasium with grumbling
thunder then we're all
tossing dice and teaching
each other dance moves,
saying the ******* the edge
needs a pair of new shoes
and someone responds:
Isn't that the woman who kills?

And I go home with her
rain on tin and a summer
wade through Cottonwood Creek
we're in a shed
and it's musty, dangerous,
and possible
a killer takes certain care
of your body with her
cautious hands.

And if they get together
anything's possible,
whether instant infidelity or
absolute combustion.

One more way to alleviate tension,
to land mine
the curious,
to ooh,
to ahh.

I've seen a sheriff put a bullet in a deer's head in Colorado Springs,
I've lived a winter through in an unfinished basement,
I've made obligatory love to a dark-haired woman,
her red dress above her head.

I've stumbled to the karaoke bar
just to read out of a notebook of unfinished poetry,
and when the crowd complained I said,
"These are the last words I will speak."

I've thrown my wallet into my grandmother's open casket,
I've got a punch card behind the counter at the liquor store,
I've ended a job interview by throwing a fake apple through
a glass window.

I've seen the battlefield of Antietam.

I've watched the rearview mirror for hours expecting
her husband to find me.

I've hidden a gun under my shirt, and I've
got this song in my head I've been meaning to write down.

I've got a good intention and a couple theories and a
Southern affection for personal secrets.

My buddy Todd set us up.
Her name, I knew her name:
Isabel Fienne.
I met her outside of Byron's,
drinking a 40 out of a brown bag.
She wore black, black spaghetti strap,
black Memphis skirt, black stockings.
I told her I liked the color of her eyes.
She said her dad just died.
And asked me, "What was your name again?"
I asked her, "How about a little of that drink?"
We spent the night throwing rocks at passing cars,
dodging police, and talking about how
we liked the anonymity of night.

We woke up in an alley.

I whispered the word stockings.
She bit my lip.
We get married the first of June.

All of my friends were there
and their friends, too
and the friends of my friends'
cousins and their dogs
and their all-seeing aunts crammed into
ill-fitting blouses with
their husbands in New York or L.A.
and their inbetweens sending them
***** texts and someone, I think it was
my mother, she said, Why don't you
lay in the river
And I said, Of course
The leaves fell
The birds sang a four-note phrase
and all my friends, the best ones,
they tossed half-empty packs
of gum, flower petals, quarters, pens--
anything they had in their pockets
As I passed by them I said, Remember
when we ate the poison berries and
said our goodbyes. Remember when
I played pitcher on our t-ball team.
Remember when Drew took the electric
fence to his crotch. Remember when
we threw Josh's library book into the rain.
Remember when I learned to ride a bike in
sixth grade. Remember when I kissed
you on the backseat of the school bus.

And they said, Yes. And they laughed.

Those were good times.

My brother, he was there too, he hopped
in the river and gave me a push, said,
I'll see you around the next bend.

Life number two, I said.

Life number two.

The rains came.
No matter.
The Irish kids with Hebrew names
still took to the lot behind the redbrick
apartments to play a close-quarters
game of baseball.
From home plate to first base
the distance was ten yards.
From first to second, fifteen.
Runners placed one hand
on a rusted iron pole, once
used as one half of a clothesline,
a makeshift third.
Their frequency of play
rendered the space between
bases grassless.
And in the rain on that September
day, the lines became sludge.
The muck claimed shoes
of earnest feet, badged the
legs of the best hitters.
Hey batta. Hey batta.
Thunder overhead and
all around.
A lean, blonde-haired
boy, all legs and arms,
got a piece of the ball
on his first pitch.
Upward into the clouds,
upward into the invisible.
He took first, started for
second.
The others kept waiting
for the ball to come back
down.