We hated in silence
the family that lived
between us and the swamp,
as we called this vacant
lot of brush, all tangled
with skeins of wild grapes, skunk
cabbage and moss that soaked
through our soles. They told us
stay out; but every day
we disobeyed, beating
sticks into swords, burning
garbage and breathing in
the emerald fumes. Humping
against each other’s thighs
on discarded cushions
speckled with mold. A brook

seeped through a culvert clogged
with rotting leaves, bottle
glass, condoms and rusted
batteries. In winter
this mud sludge froze over.
When we’d fall through, we’d pull
ourselves free, the feathers
in our soaked down coats clung
like shame. Our bald father
would decry the local
government: If only
they’d dredge the old brook—then
it would flow clean and clear
all the way to the sea
like it did in the days
before you six were born.