November, the world dead
waiting for snow & at dusk
Ray coaxed his sister Susie
to the one-bulb garage where
O’Connell & Ralph plus one
cluster by the open tail-gate
of the family Ford & on it
thirteen she’s placed &
in the thick padding
of her winter coat & cords
squirms as they grip
her ankles & wrists
whimpers I’ll tell I’ll tell
while eight hands take
turns to search the places
where the secrets
are meant to hide
O’Connell in the lead
voice his yet not
his hissing in a tongue
untaught but learned
you like it really really
Ray in her ear don’t tell
don’t you tell or else till
they scatter into the night
O’Connell & Ray away
to smoke somewhere
I guess & Ralph plus one
to crouch in the field
behind the house the dark
field all the leaves and weeds
silent and waiting the lovely
snow field the past field
at the edge of its last dark
before the houses & malls
erase it willing nothing
but to forget & pray
Susie, God, or anyone
don’t tell don’t tell don’t tell
They didn’t. It’s told.