where she is drying the dishes.
“Some older boys made me have a fight
with another boy from choir. He didn’t do
anything to me but they told me I had to.
I only hit him once and then ran away.
I don’t like the way boys get bigged up
for being violent. There’s so much fighting
at my school. At elementary school it was just
play fighting but now they’re not playing.”
She puts the tea towel over her shoulder,
a hand on her hip and the other on the edge
of the sink. “Some older boys told you to hit
someone? And you just did it?” She looks
shocked. I feel shame all over again.
“They surrounded us shouting, ‘Fight! Fight!’
I don’t want to go back to choir,” I cry.
“I don’t want to stay at that stupid school.”
“You’re lucky it’s your birthday,” Mum says.
“Just go to bed. Get out of my sight.”
I go to fold up my telescope to take
to my room and escape to the stars.
“Leave your telescope.”
I’m stuck here
with my shame.
Flamingosfighting
can look just like kissing,
pecking beak-to-beak. Freeze
frame and you may see a love
heart in the shape of their
two necks arching out
