This morning outside the

seal of my back door

stood a curious young

blonde boy.

He took my sleeve and

walked me away

from the corkboard

of my flat yellow room.

He walked me past

my triangle yard

and rhubarb and

strawberry dirt fence.

He led me into cornfield

beyond Plum Street.

We pushed aside stalks and

weaved through row that


like a tide over us. The

blonde boy and I

at lunchtime came

to a clearing

and sat. With green scissors

he warned me

not to speak and snipped

out a bit of my tongue.

Brian Janisse (Feb. ‘18) expands on his lines, “This poem is a wash of safe childhood images disturbed by my inner rebel-rouser, who tempted me to push the limits of expression beyond comfort.”

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