In class I sat
with a Loreley with goldenes hair.

At five she told K.:
“Our sandbox is full of witches’ teeth.”
K. talks about that till this day.

I stop digging for Australia
and circle the edge after her.
She shrugs,
all the other kids will die.
Three years later
we sit in a circle and listen to D.
who tells us his mom has killed herself.

In the break I move like moth and we have a little one on one.

“You know
why when people die
they move to water.”

“It’s their instinct.”

Sobbing I crossed the big street that day
annoying my mom while she,
hopping cheerfully beside us.

D. left that year.

His playback version of Reet Petite gave me
the first glance
of the meaning of