Tracy disappeared behind an angel
in the center. We all knew
he’d be the first to go.
Keith stayed on the outskirts,
moving from one stone to another,
but never hiding well, afraid
of disappearing in the darkness,
never being found again.
Beth moved to the edge,
then backed away, afraid
of coming in now. No one called
her then, not yet. No one asked her
to lie down behind a stone,
leave her body’s shape
pressed into wet grass.
Aaron played by the rules,
found the best hiding spot,
waited until he was seen
or the chaser distracted, then
ran for base, certain of safety.
Tim took the biggest chances,
slow of foot, legs thick as stumps
and rooted to the ground, he pulled
stones around him, knelt between
the legs of angels, buried himself
in broomstraw growing everywhere.
Later, playing baseball,
Travis Thompson split open
his head on “Jim McCormick,”
“A little lamb, born March 1,
died March 7, 1915.”
I relied on speed and cunning,
rarely bothered to hide.
played decoy for the others.
When I got away I ran so far
that no one could catch me.
Scott Owens‘ tenth collection of poetry, Shadows Trail Them Home, is due out from Clemson University Press this fall. His prior work has received awards from the Academy of American Poets, the Pushcart Prize, the North Carolina Writers’ Network, the North Carolina Poetry Society, and the Poetry Society of South Carolina. His poems have been in Georgia Review, North American Review, The Chattahoochee Review, Southern Poetry Review, and Poetry East among others. He is the founder of Poetry Hickory, editor of Wild Goose Poetry Review and 234, and vice president of the Poetry Council of North Carolina. Born and raised in Greenwood, SC, he teaches at Catawba Valley Community College in Hickory, NC.
