sidney wollmuth

we run

we pull sports bras
over our heads,
the purple kind
laced with filling, shaped
to camouflage
the pointy, the sloped
so no man
can point
to our chests
and use smoke signals
as an excuse

we promise our mothers
we won’t venture
the off beaten
the murky
the rooted/shaded/shortcutted
and though our calves
are built like weapons,
we bunch kitty-kat
knives in our fists, swing
plastic hammers by our sides
unhinge the plugs from our ears
at the first rustle
bustle
even if it turns out
just to be a squirrel

we yearn for our high school
years, those running girl gangs
who shouted ROOT in the
woods
and clasped our knuckles
when the biker moved
too
slow
we did not need
mesh against
our stomachs
to feel safe
we used to push
our thighs
until we sobbed,
never worrying
about who
would find
us
panting
on the sidewalk