The boy was thrown against the ground, his arms flung wide so I could see under the bent grille of the farmer’s truck his narrow chest rise and fall—so I could hear between the swish of passing cars that click of breath and bone.
Even now I watch the rain—but there was no rain— spark against the road. I see his hair— but from where I stood his face was turned— soaked against the ripe fruit of his cheek. Listen,
the bus had stopped for gas. I left my seat and walked across the empty lot hoping for a sink to rinse my mouth. I remember the black field beyond the road, the moonless sky and how I strained to tell heaven from earth.
Truth is, that morning no one was saved. No one lit a cigarette and proclaimed Never again to anything. Strange. How I can see each orange fall from the bed of the truck, thump onto the pavement and roll gently to a stop.
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