We army crawl across the dirt and patches of dying grass.
Barely missing us, they passed.
Crawl to one smoldering, watching out for broken glass.
We thoroughly examine it.
The white of the missile contrasts against the dirt.
We hear their cackles.
I hear a familiar click.
I look up toward the deck.
Curiously, I watch a finger press the button of the bic.
From the corner of my eye, I see her mother's fingers flick.
Another missile heading our way.
"Watch out!" my cousin yells to make me alert.
But it was too late.
Why didn't I hear the familiar noise of it hitting the dirt?
I look down and see another cigarette burn a hole through my skirt.
I was too slow.
It was too quick.
Now my skirt is aglow.
Through her half-witted smile, smoke is blown.
I was only six,
They should have known.