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by Domenic Scopa


All was moving.
Teammates crowded Richie
who was fetal,
cradling his broken ankle.
The coaches huddled
with a first aid kit,
rummaging for gauze and tape.
Grass stained my soccer pants.
I had slide-tackled Richie.
My babysitter scolded me.


Inside my nightmares,
my babysitter’s in my childhood room.
He unclothes himself,
unconsciously graceful,
his naked body walking
window to window
drawing all the curtains,
so daylight will not wake us early.
He kills the lights.
I turn them back on
and hope he will not show me
how to move my tongue
the way that gets him off.


The soccer pants are still crumpled
in the closet’s corner
where the babysitter tossed them.
I was afraid of my closet
for years after he took me.
People ask me what happened to Richie.
I don’t know. I haven’t seen him
since I broke his ankle.

previously published in Fuck Art, Let’s Dance

Filed under: Fuck Art, Let's Dance, Poetry

About the Author

Posted by

Oi ! I’m Jeremiah Walton. For the past ~3 years I’ve been bopping around the U.S. between hitchhiking + rubber tramping, running traveling bookstore Books & Shovels + indie publisher Nostrovia! Press. My focus is in-person distribution at open mics + features + busking. Word of mouth is a fulfilling & feels to be a more intimate promotional process. I’ve featured at the NYC Poetry Festival + San Francisco Lit Crawl + Snoetry Cleveland + Beast Crawl Oakland + This Lil Lit Fest + street corners across the country. There’s a handful of my books floating around the country, but most recently is “From Here Til Utopia” (Ghost City Press). Raccoons + coyotes are my companions. Hope you dig the poems, much love, thank you❤


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