'All swim' whistle,
water sent splashing,
the chaotic entrance of youth.
Adults scramble in the melee
while a man I do not know
bumps into me,
his hand down my shorts.
Confusion.
I ride home in shame.
Silent. Burning. Shame.
I am only 10
and tend to wince
at loud voices,
and right and wrong
depend upon the
time of day and
how many beers
my father drinks.
Country roads whip by,
sweet corn in the wind,
I watch the sun set
over the hill.
Once it's gone I know.
There will be no redemption,
no reclaiming of innocence.
That shame feels like swallowing hot coals is all too familiar.
Mother says, “You don't look sick to me",
it's her answer for everything.