We put our weapons in the trunk–– <br />a wood staff, two metal bats, & a BB-gun <br />shaped like a Luger–– <br />& set out for Lincoln Park in Trevor's '94 Firebird. <br />I sat in the back <br />with Kenny & the words of Wyclef, <br />believing what I sang <br />meant 'brotherhood' in another language. <br /> <br />Back then, we wanted fear <br />to break up the faceless days, believing Trevor <br />when he told us <br />that cults gathered at night <br />outside the park next to our high school. <br />I think some part of me wanted to place evil so close <br />to where I slept–– <br />inside the people around me in everyday places. <br />I wanted to believe <br />that in a city where the sun burned into us daily, <br />something cold could settle. <br /> <br />We armed ourselves from the trunk <br />& cut through <br />a soccer field to the desert that dropped <br />into darkness beyond <br />the wide arcs of the field lights. I was first in, <br />the others tightening <br />into a line behind me as I angled through mesquites. <br />I watched ahead, <br />trying to catch the glow of a bonfire on the horizon, <br />pretending not to hear <br />the barking of a dog in a nearby yard. I wanted <br />to be lost in the wilderness. <br /> <br />I would not be for years, though on that night I felt it <br />for the first time, <br />in the way each word I sang broke from my tongue–– <br />syllables forming words <br />I could never hope to understand.<br /><br />Sean McDowell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/guantanamera/
