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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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John Malcom

 

I was poked in the eye by the end of a rake

and ran home hurt and enraged

around the time of the Atlanta child murders.

So many sprints home, arms above my head

so the dogs wouldn’t snap off my fingers,

fast away from a killer’s car so often at the turn.

My mom said it was John Malcom who murdered

my black and gold Huffy. I found its handlebars

in the woods after our beach trip. He was troubled,

she said. But he waved to me one day

as he passed the dead end with his machete

and friend, the three headed to the deep brush

that I explored too. I knew the vine they cut

above the creek wouldn’t grow back. It had

been a small miracle, how I swung over

the water, sure I was brave.

 

                  -Zach Mitcham