BY MEG EDEN
In the rain, the dog
carries a dead bird
from one end of the parking lot
to the other. This is when you tell me
you’re too old for Pokémon now--
whatever that means—and from
our fort in the car, the world outside
looks grey and adult, like a text-
book. Also, cold. The dead bird
is wet and limp, and the dog
is so small that the bird is stealing
the show, and I almost wonder
where the bird is going instead of the dog.
I don’t know what it means
to outgrow Pokémon. Is that like how
Anne of Green Gables grew up
and left her imagination in self storage?
We’re in fifth grade and I don’t believe
in shit like that. I just learned the word
shit and I keep saying it and snorting
and farting when I laugh as we call
that neighbor boy shit, literally,
and I guess this is the last thing
you and I have to talk about:
our mutual gossip, all the while
it continues to rain against the windows,
angled as if to hit us, but slides
down the panes instead.
Meg Eden's work has been published in various magazines, including Rattle, Drunken Boat, Poet Lore, and Gargoyle. She teaches at the University of Maryland. She has four poetry chapbooks, and her novel "Post-High School Reality Quest" is forthcoming from California Coldblood, an imprint of Rare Bird Lit. Check out her work at: www.megedenbooks.com.