Amarillo Bay — Poetry

For three days a long candescent tongue of fire
licks across the desiccated mouth of earth
sequestered in far West Texas—burning vines and stones.

I watch the stubborn flames;
my stomach struggles with the same dread
as it did when I was ten.

Bobby throws me in the deep
end of a pool.
I fail to remember what I learned the first day
of swimming lessons, flail my arms
instead of stroke, forget how to paddle my feet.

Water is a heavy lid pressing down on me;
I do not touch bottom.
I kick hard, bob-up gasping, reach for a pole,
listen to spectators laugh.
Chlorine and joking sting the sky out of my eyes
when I shut them, go back under.

I wet myself; feel the burn of fear—shame
on my legs when a strong hand hoists
me onto hot concrete.
I want to go home; my brothers are not ready.
I cower in a corner, stare at the roof
of the Village Market Grocery Store.

I do not think about my cousin, Curtis,
sweating in the jungles of Vietnam,
bullets tearing through Bobby Kennedy,
the Beatles’ Revolution and Hey Jude.

My mind blisters with anger.
Biting my bottom lip,
I mentally rehearse punishment
for Bobby. The pungent taste
of revenge ferments on my tongue.
The desire to “get him back,”
rising like a fresh loaf of bread.