I was seven in a muddy lawn 

freshly shot by the sky. 

Bugs waded in the carnage. 

My brothers & I, my two brothers & I, 

we slid through as the rain up- 

cycled leaving sheets of clay 

for landscapers to deal with. 

We were painted. The pigment 

was hot. I remember knowing 

the innate fixture of things, 

how this shallow bog would soon lift & become a fantastic dirty cloud. 

Science was readymade 

as the snacks that brought us inside. My brothers ran. I waited 

in the carnage. My parents took note 

that it was odd. Recently 

they’ve been unfurling stories 

which paint me as a cosmic invader flung headfirst into Real Life. 

But no, I was actually a bug 

in that warm plot. I wanted to be lifted—thought if I covered myself in enough of earth’s juice 

I could rise & fall back

into place. Thought it would be nice

to see our house from above. No one ever told me otherwise, so I stayed there 

for about five minutes with my 

eyes closed.

Henry Koskoff