Taking Turns
by Liz Dolan

When the spaldeen rolled down
the cellar stairs
of Mulligan’s
Funeral Home and it was
my turn to get the ball,
my tongue puffed like pastry.
Behind the door
it was said
they inbombed bodies
and though unsure of what
that meant, I descended
two steps at a time,
fisted the ball and squeezed it tight
‘til I saw my buddy again,
a taut silhouette in slanted twilight,
the stickball bat
parallel to his body.

Copyright 2022 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.