There was a tobacco field next to the rest stop where I lost him, and a boy’s bike leaned lost and abandoned against the side of the building. I remember sitting on that wooden board in the dark while they waited in the van, the cramps twisting my guts inside-out and all I could think about was splinters. There I sat, leaving pieces of him in a hillbilly outhouse by the side of the road and all that worried me was wood sticking to my legs, tearing my skin.


Little pieces of wood.



postcard shorts — january 2010



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