Walking Home at Twelve Years Old by Roxanne Cardona

He is impossibly blond at ten,
his hair cut to skin, sideburns that escaped

scissors, he always behind me,
dark irises that only saw the floor.

Hayley, sometime friend, almost fourteen,
Two inches over me as all three of us

walk home that wet day together.
My bob tucked inside a rain cap,

our umbrellas cuddling beneath
the drops. I can't remember why—

their umbrellas bump. Bump hard.
In front of our building, my brother Richie

and Hayley exchange more umbrella bumps.
The word stop hopped from Hayley to Richie.

I don't scream when she hurls his ten-year-old
body into the marbled wall. His head

first to land. His chubby hands a shield.
Not done yet, she slams him again,

his temple runs red. My feet rooted.
Leave him, leave him, alone, alone—

You can't make me, she screeches,
like a red-tailed hawk. Her claws turn to me.

I lift-up the folded umbrella, as if a sword.
Strike her, her shoulder, her head

her thighs, again—shoulder, thighs, head.
Her fingers grabbing for pieces of my hair,

slipping on the wet skin of my rain cap.
I rip the front of her dress, my hands a cleaver.

Then her whimpers are a white flag. Richie's stunned
irises. The moans of bruises. Never touch him again,

never—ever. I gather his wounds, wrap myself
around him. Together, we climb the five flights home.



Roxanne Cardona was born in New York City. She has been published in Constellations, Animal, Commuter Lit, Poetic Medicine, Ethel Zine, Writer’s Circle 2, and Charleston Anvil. She has a BA/MS from Hunter College, MS from the College of New Rochelle. Roxanne resides in Teaneck, NJ with her husband.