Thicket

Shed of missing

supplies, smell

of mulch, tight

pinch of his fingers,

the stick of skin

in bushes

under the window.

I let him make

me touch

him. Once, I saw

his mother standing

over us washing

dishes and

once, his father

must have heard

him from the garage

counting down

the seconds until

(he said)

he would stop.

In a room

in the house,

a portrait

of his mother

in tights. His father

was the chief

of police.