Syrup (Draft)

It's been a long time
since I built a fort,
climbed a tree,
jumped fearlessly on a sled
down a rocky, half snow-covered hill.
I can't remember the last time
I rode a bike
down to the "One Stop"
to buy penny candy
with quarters stolen from my father's dresser.
I don't miss the scraped knees
and the way the pebbled pavement made
indents in my skin--
those would bleed differently than a
fall from rollerblading--
a chunk of skinned something,
"Look at that. Is that skin?"

It's been a long time
since I stabbed jellyfish with piece of driftwood
found on the beach.
I bashfully wore a t-shirt
while riding waves at the beach,--
soaked, sticky, and wet with salty sea water--
I exit the wake, bellybutton showing through my shirt,
the unique thrill of the suction sound
as I modestly peeled the shirt away
from my husky, prepubescent belly.

After, we made mud pies,
slapping them with water
till they became flat like pancakes
with dead jellies as the syrup.