There is a war at school You are not sure how it began
Everyone is carrying rocks
The lines are so clearly drawn
that you find yourself on the gutter-behind-the-kickball-field team
without even trying Mariko whose name
always reminded you of some type of mariner
is pointing out the weakness in the enemy’s defense
This is a rock-throwing war
all of their pockets bulge Keoni holds a big one
in both hands At some point the rocks are thrown
They must be
Afterwards you go home you clean up you wrestle spaghetti
All that time the rock you threw
is still in the air It is arching over third base
it is ten paces from the soft foreheads of the enemy It is spinning slightly
still warm from your palm
