Bubble Wrap
They spill onto our deck, ants, black and red, pouring out of our shed.
Even as they reach his chin, my retarded brother stomps, like they are bubble wrap, grinning and pointing at me, his cloaked arms raised, still like corn stalks.
At most two minutes before they’re in my room. I get back in bed, think about what that girl down the street vowed yesterday. I'm still awake when they come under the door. A few tickle my arms on the way to my mouth. She'll laugh when she hears. She'll tell everyone that's what raping gets you.
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David Erlewine edits flash for JMWW. His work appears in Thieves Jargon, SmokeLong Quarterly, Literal Latte, mud luscious, elimae, and other places.
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