Swarm

In a mob of school kids,

two boys shove each other 

before they’re on the ground.

They jab at air and grass,

missing the jaw, cheek and eye.

A girl standing at the edge

screams at the boy

straddling his opponent.

Leave him alone. 

This won’t make me like you. 

I watch from my car 

across the street

after cruising through an old ‘hood, 

two decades removed

from my childhood.

And yet this gust spirals

the pinwheel of memory,

whirling me back to third grade,  

when I obsessed over Tia Jones

the way my friends swarmed

the ice cream truck for grape Pixy Stix.

She was a sixth grader, who mistook

my lamppost legs and power line arms

for a fifth grader.

She was as old as the boys

throwing grass in each other’s hair,

rolling around in a kind of awkward

tango towards manhood.

Watching the chubby kid

overpower his skinny enemy,

I’m reminded of Darnell,

an older boy too short for Tia.

That’s when I wonder

if Insecurity’s the biggest instigator.

The one constantly egging you on  

to prove yourself,

like that day Darnell kept asking,

Why you so stupid?    

It was the day I gave Tia

a Valentine’s card I made 

with construction paper 

and magic markers. 

She kissed my cheek,

her lips flipped the switch

to the streetlights inside me.

Why you so stupid? Darnell said.  

He shoved me. You so stupid 

you don’t even speak.

Tia’s fingers locked with mine, 

Let’s get out of here.

I didn’t speak when he snatched her card

and tore it, when I unzipped my bag,

pulled out cleats, and smacked him.  

I was a nest of wasps.

Each cleat stung him 

over and over.

A woman’s yell calls me back

across the street. It’s the neighbor

on her front porch, wearing

a blue tattered housecoat

and floppy pink slippers.

She holds up her phone,

and the crowd scatters,

Y’all need to stop! I got police on the line!  

I wish I had someone like her

to save me from myself

before Darnell’s tears streaked 

over welts big as bee stings.

Tia nowhere in sight.