by A.M. Broadous
In this photograph, we donned
two white T-shirts, black shorts straight
from the dryer, and boots for our hike
on dirt roads where boxelder bugs and
garter snakes gibbered in confidence.
Our backs to this one vinyl memory,
we traded our childhoods for a vanishing
point as easily as a sack
lunch of honey-butter sandwiches.
Adult, now a verb, shocking how
quickly a noun grows up. It’s just
a word, one we can turn from as
easily as we turn this page. We can
still turn on our heels in the dust
and face the white-hot lens steadying
the time, the moment that has already
passed, pressed us flatly into an
album where we’d walk not run
beside mint leaves and lavender,
the world bunched at our ankles,
believing we were the heroes.