It is a game, a circle drawn with scraping rocks on cracking concrete, heat collecting in waves of waves of bacon, had we known the word.
we play it bare foot, bare sleeves, bare arms and legs-- everyone in, get in the circle and stay and if you don’t, you’re out.
the It stays out, an island looking at an island of frozen, frantic energy, tilted grins, and knees, and limbs, and It begins.
It reaches in to touch one hand, one wisp of hair, one shoulder, one arm, and It’s a blur of locking, knocking knees and knobs and churning burning feet on baking concrete
and the closest two, as close as hands with fingers locked together, are shaken, taken by the roaring sea of voices moving left and right and screaming as It tries to reach from all directions.
and one feels It come close, too close, so go push back against the mass as It pushes back on you and you can feel It reaching, barely there, a hair's-breadth from your head
and in the fear, the one lets go. And blood is spilt when none has yet been shed.
one person from the tangle of the pushing, plying, stifled breaths, and pressing pants of skittish laughter is pushed out
and the mass, it crumbles, falls, And all is lost when none has yet been left.