Quills – a poem (in process)
The day we discovered prickly
grass next to the three pine trees,
we walked back and forth across it for hours
quacking that the soft grass
was much better. But we laughed at the surprise
of stiff brown stalks stabbing
like porcupine quills
at our tender feet.
When I was sixteen, I skipped school
in September. I climbed the bridge
on the road to Avalon.
The sun had begun to set
behind me when I jumped
off. Later, at a party, I told it to a girl I loved
who let me put my hand down her pants and bit me
at the end of each soft-lipped kiss.
Copyright 2011, Michael Lamanna
