When it was my turn to speak, I talked about the week every August
we spent together before school started. How we’d row the kayaks out
in the early morning before anyone else was awake and dig through the rocks
on the uninhabited island on the lake, imagining ourselves some kind of explorers.
Remember the time you sliced your finger damned good
trying to dig out a piece of quartz? It bled so much but
we just laughed. I wrapped my hand tight around your thumb,
blood seeping between my locked knuckles, our eyes dancing
with interest until the flow slowed to a drip.
It must’ve stung later,
dirty and open, with each dip into the water,
but if anything, I would have said you paddled harder.
Anna Fuselier Thompson is a writer and communications professional living between Washington DC, and the Oregon coast. Her work has been published in RAVEN and is forthcoming in Neologism Poetry Journal.