by John A. Nieves
Some games we played weren’t
about competition. The goal
was for everyone to win, like when
we’d throw pillows around the room
and name the floor lava. No one
tried to push anyone else in. The idea
was adventure. We would risk
imaginary immolation to reach
the hallway—the outskirts of the world.
I miss those games. I miss the magic
of anyone having the right to declare
anything dangerous at anytime. I have
longed for it. How many times I’ve
wished to shout Don’t go home with
him, he’s lava, or Don’t get on that
motorcycle, it’s quicksand, or Don’t move
there, it’s full of sharks and for a second
have the others reach to me to steady
their balance before bounding the opposite
direction of hospitals, and cemeteries
and any variety of prison. Instead, we
have reached an age of evidence. Convincing
must be done even as the soles of our feet catch
fire, even as we squint to ignore the flames.
Hawaii Pacific Review 