of evergreen . I gaze at Papi ’ s chopping shed , Papi ’ s beat-up burnt orange canoe , Papi ’ s little rowboat bobbing in the dock . The sky is turning lavender across the lake .
SHAUN POWER By the Riverside Pastel on A4 paper
I ’ m one lucky bastard , I think , smiling at Papi overhead , the wine warming .
With one lazy slip I carve a groove into my thumb , speckling blood all over my sweet potatoes , streaks of red on amber . I curse . Flap my injured hand like a mad bird . Throw down the bowl , the knife lodged inside the flesh of one potato , and scurry inside in search of a Band Aid .
I ’ m washing the blood in the kitchen sink , the red dribbling , when I see that there ’ s a child in my porch swing seat . He ’ s sitting cross-legged , his back to me , quite still . It ’ s a tiny back , sharp wing bones plainly protruding from beneath a cotton shirt , maybe a school uniform .
“ Hey ,” I yell through the window . “ Hey .”
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