My brothers never saw the girl

who spied on us near the fence where we played

while the sky dimmed and we grew tired and thirsty

before mother called us in. I’d linger

to be the last, then looked back to see her

peering at me from between the slats.

Once I heard crying and went out alone to face her.

She’d snagged her hand on a nail in the fence

and held it to me while I stopped the blood.

I hated her soft sobs, her flattened brown bangs.

Go home, I whispered, as heat lightening bristled

and a warm rain broke out in splats along our arms.

Go before they see you. Mother didn’t ask

about the small stain at my shirt hem.

It purpled and grayed 

and I knew she’d probably never ask. 

They said I was a liar when you didn’t come back,

but you were as real as any loss I could trace

in those shortening days,

faded mouth, pale oxbow, pitiful girl.