THEY LINED UP, OPRHANS IN THE OLIVE
I was wearing a dress red as surgery. All my friends had come
to the clearing, Lucia among them. We were eight years old.
I stood before the mob of us
and said a prayer.
Each girl stepped forward as if drawn
from a flip book.
‘Take this,’ I might have said, and they took
and turned back and blurred.
After, they debated the taste of the chip I had given them.
One said yellow. One said salt. One said god. The rest nodded.
It was a Sunday; the evening was getting low. We played
and played. I took off my berry dress and everyone wore it in turn.