on monday mornings we used to grab each other’s arms
and trace lines from the wrist to the shoulder,
trying to guess when we got touched in the middle.
since our eyes were closed, nobody
had to see my fingers.
pick, rip.
there’s always a name for what plagues you
and mine tasted the same
as charlie brown’s unrequited love.
the only thing that tasted worse
was the word that we couldn’t say out loud.
but on sunday bright and early
they’d grab us by the shoulders
and stare into our eyes until
we repeated those universal truths
what goes up must come down,
don’t swim right after you eat,
even satan knows
that there’s something out there.