Good Talk

‘It will grow back tougher’ he said as my hands bled. Paths of dirt and gravel mixed in the palm

like the soybean field rows I had sprinted

through to meet the school bus at the border

of the paved street and dirt driveway. Face down. Counting the burrs gripped to my laces and socks. My sobs did not cease. Confused.

Was it the cuts or the words

that stung like bees? I look up to him, his hands cupped. ‘Want to cry me a handful baby?’