I’m walking through petals beside
a child waving a stick
that looks like a wolf. He’s not afraid.
He’s singing about garbage men
who lug swollen bags away. He’s singing
about knives, how we shouldn’t
hold them till we’re old. Why
There is a space
between him and me—a space,
not a chasm—
not too wide for our crossing—.
Copyright © 2017 Alessandra Lynch
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.