[they’re in their lord of the flies bag]
terence says about the boys nestled
in the mouth of the waterfall
the one boy’s eyes opened to the sky, legs
wrapped around the rock to keep him
alive, afloat, the river running over
him, kissing him just so, his body
an interruption in the water, the rush
and roar of its call partitioned by the fall
dividing it from itself. the other boys
perched around him like water nymphs
staring off beyond the mountains’ dip,
where the sun sets. the boys so landed
they become part of the land, the roots rooting
around their ankles. yes, in their lorded fly
bag, but a lord of the flies before
it gets dark. before they do what they do
to piggy, before the split and hunt. wild,
still. boys who jump from as high
as the trees, into the water cradled
so lovingly by rock, boys who ford
the river in their socks, throwing their shoes
to any soft land willing to catch. the water,
a mother: both healing and scolding, both soft
and gathering pressure at the fall. shallow
enough to walk, deep enough to dive, the boys
know her, where to step
and where to not, how to say hello, when
to let her sleep. their big toes scraping
into the moss, curling to hold them steady, fingernails
finding the hook between roots to anchor, to pull
their bodies upwards. the coquís coquíing their song.
the sun winking its set. everything green; nothing
poisoned. alhamdullilah, to know land
so well, you can play with it. to never second guess
where your foot lands, how to get your body
where it wants to go. to be so fromed, you from.
alhamdullilah, to cradle the fall and not fall.
to hear the river’s rush and feel safety. wild.
the boys. in their lord of the flies bag. yes,
the boys, there, on top of the waterfall. pulling
crumbs of leaves out of each other’s hair. the boys:
wild, but not lost. the boys, wild and belonged.
