by Drew Broadous
In this photograph from 1998,
we elected, rather, were told, to wear
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 tiny backs to this one vinyl memory,
we seemed to trade our childhoods
for a vanishing point as easily as a sack
lunch of honey-butter sandwiches.
Adult would mean to grow up,
and we’d both feel the shock of how
speedily a noun can change.
We’ve tried to convince more than
just ourselves that it’s only a word,
that we can turn on it as easily as we
turn this page, how 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 and beautifully 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.