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.






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