The Making of Friends
by Jenni Singleton

You asked your tree house friend to open the box. Inside
who knew what was to be found.
Long, slightly sticky from sap, you poked at it
with a stick. A train growled in the distance.
Faster, faster, the shrill horn exploded dust and woods
at your feet. Your hand trembles. The thorn from
the bush where it was pricked. Unconscious, asleep, you
know you want the sunshine but instead you get the moon.
Arms longed to be held, but fear traps the mind like a rabid
animal. Dust shakes, draping like a net all over your body.
The box remains unopened. You fall into the arms
of the Moirai. Do not go trembling.
You have been there before.

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