This is *kind of* a true story. As a kid, I tagged along with the boy scouts since I had two brothers, and my dad was a troop leader. I always felt like I was one of them, sort of. Anyway, here's a little poem about being a 5 year old girl, in the woods with a bunch of wolves ::ahem:: I mean boys.
I sit around the fire with the boys,
and hold my stick above the flame.
I let my marshmallow burn
to hear them laugh, to stop
their talk of guts, how, while hiking
they’d come across a rabbit,
torn to pieces in the brush.
What do you do when lost in the woods?
my father asks the troop. They talk of earth,
of footprints, broken twigs and stars. A language
I can’t understand. I clutch my rabbit’s foot,
dyed red and on a chain.
Which one’s the northern star?
The troop leader asks, his eyes
on me. I shrug.
and point my finger towards the night sky
at any old star, one of thousands
in the milky night.
A boy scout grabs my arm
and guides my finger towards
the brightest star.
There, he whispers in my ear,
breath tickling against my neck.
A june bug lands on my knee,
drunk on the light we make.
I shriek, and the boy scout lets my arm go,
pinches the bug between his fingers.
I watch him toss it to the flame,
catch and grow still.
Girl, how are you going to find
your way home?