pale popsicles

i love to be unsupervised in 
the crook of august's knee. 
our brotherhood blooms & i 
get a nice scare on my elbow.
we out grow the bikes & so we
let them roam free without us
in the rolling fields now thick with corn. 
our parents never come home.
the house asks us too many questions like,
"are you hungry?" & "how old are you?"
i am maybe ten or maybe twelve. 
we melt popsicles all day in the sun.
snakes arrive & never let me catch them.
ants carry away all of our eyelashes
so that our eyes are moons, blazing & bright. 
the cars outside are all going to
a big hole in the ground. sometimes
you try to hail one down. i try to tell you
they are not stopping. the night is 
playing hopscotch at the old playground.
the old oak is still alive & keeping locks
of our hair. the popsicle 
supply runs low until it is only
the pale ones left. we are never sure
what their flavor is supposed to be.
pineapple or coconut maybe. maybe bone.
our bones sometimes get so loud that
we can see them through the skin.
they talk like wind chimes. the syrup 
is strange & sweet. we take turns trying
to name this final flavor. "hot apple."
"de-tongued melon." none of them ever stick.
we do not like them but we eat them anyway.
the soonness of the world is too much
to waste too much time avoiding sugar.
when the night comes it is cool & full of bats. 
they ask us what we are doing with our bones
on display. we run inside. crack glow sticks
& hold them beneath our faces. 
"did you see what i did?" you ask.
i did not but i lie & say, "i did."