The guns they carry are bigger than they are,
these boys in my back yard. They hide behind
the cottonwood trees, and peek out, hoping
to see someone else before they are seen.
The lawn is littered with blue and orange bullets,
and the air is alternately raucous and quiet.
It is impossible for me to not think of the story
I read in the news last night. Though the boys
are ebullient, I can’t see the guns as toys.
Perhaps, said Shu Ting, the mistaken road
will end in a mistake. I notice how I don’t
want to believe him. I want to believe
that even mistaken roads might end
in a bright field. I myself have said and believed
there are no such things as mistakes.
I try to comfort myself with this as a boy
rushes past me, shrieking with glee, shooting rounds
from his gun at his friend. Hit, the friend stands still
and counts to ten before leaping into the fray again.
One. Two. Three. I do not move. Four. Five. Six.
That story, the girl was so young. Seven. Eight. Nine.
The boys shout, More ammo, more ammo. Ten.
Time to move, I tell myself. Perhaps the mistaken
road will end in a mistake. And the woman
walking it, who doesn’t believe in mistakes,
perhaps she and all these boys will just keep on walking.
