Dirt-27

once, i held my brother’s hand so it shifted beige-pink-purple-blue and he shrieked an inaudible shriek. i observed the gentle contortion of cheekbone and face-meat, and he picked three careful woodchips from the park in which we never played, dug the dullest into my palm, and twisted to the right. children, they say, are the strawberry juice of laughter, the fruit of joy and plump little watermelons with green veins in summertime. when i was 9, my hair smelled perpetually of chlorine and my brother’s hot-water watergun, which i swear he put all the dead cicadas in but he always said “no no, the clear film spots on yo