Ulysses by Aria Kamal (16, Massachusetts)

He stands, back to the wall
as the automobiles drag themselves through the rain
(he's always wanted to ride in one, 
hear the rain click and bounce off the metal roof
rather than soaking silently through his father's hat)
headlights scaring the fog away
billowing smoke that follows them 
like hounds on the trail.

---

The boy next to him crumples,
coughing up his first cigarette.

Behind him there was laughter 
and music and drink
the paperback boys took girls by the hand and
her voice
gliding on a catgut string through the walls.

Don't sing him a lullaby tonight, 
for he fears even sleep will deny him.
His hands are white with cold. Watch him now, 
crouching to unravel his coat like Penelope.
He falls in love with the pipes once again.

For she was ripples of gingham and
the final flicker of an oil lamp before bed
and ink as it pooled on the floor
and crabapples in winter and bitter liquor and the pomegranate
he'd bought at the port
(he promised to bring one home to her, 
for so had his father to his mother before)
that slipped from his hands and spilled seeds like blood, like eyes,
like a plague onto his bare feet. 

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