The Slingshot and The Sweetgum Tree

by Frank Van Zant

Mostly the rule was Aim-For-The-Legs, playing war
with stickerballs, those jabby seed globes,
fruit of the sweetgum tree. Stickerballs made
great legwhackers, backwhackers: spikey, whipping
stingers.
           In the neighborhood, some kid would thwack a leg,
the struck kid, startled, would look for ammo
--mudcaked better than dry and light--
then spin one right back shouting GOTYA,
with more GOTYAs rising for reputation,
kids pulled by the noise, running from houses,
a free-for-all of pumping arms and
giggling adrenaline evasions.
  No mother's warning
about the eye poked out, even hunger and a dinner bell, nothing
could break the spell, and it was always okay
                                              until that time Jimmy Aiken
whapped Steven Floyd right in his stickerpopped face, and Steven--with his rasping eyes set
murderously, all rules down the sewer--he digs out a fist-sized field stone and thumps, Jimmy
Aiken right wham in the chest,
                                    now kids scrambling for Sides,
the cruellest I-always-hated-him going in our wired psyches, kids against
other kids in that testosteronic hierarchy of allegiance-making, rocks
taking wing, proliferating, all of us thrilling with danger:
                                                              new rules, new toys,
we suburban preteens fighting like cavemen, rock and bone,
boys dancing in a double helix twisting and ducking about each other,
discovering prehistory, our ranting genes
ancient in our babyfat,
                        meanwhile there, Jimmy Aiken sneaking into his garage
snatching up his Wristrocket, a slingshot he' saved for months, aluminum frame
and rubber tubing, wicked cool: rocks like buzzing missiles!
targets popping like rifle fire!

Jimmy Aiken stands there in open ground, willing to risk a thrown stone
for his april power:
                  even in his loosest aim,
                     boys ducking, hunkered down,
                         rocks going faster than a big kid's fastball,
                                 WHAP at ground zero
and Steven Floyd like a Rebel private at Pickett's Charge
comes bounding warwhooping to attack
his stone grip going in fury
against the calm geometry of a wristline, Jimmy's blast
hurtling toward the silent heel of Steven's achilles eye.

Eye like a salmon, unhooked, flipping.
Red hands praying on his face.
Mouth, a measureless vowel, howling, primordial.

We boys who had hooted along
listened to ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod
dropped our rocks dropped the pits of our stomachs dropped
our posing dropped to look for our innocence, dropped
for excuses, for blame, who could we blame, we dropped
for Not me, we dropped
in surrender, in prayer, in hopeless final exile
from childhood.