A nostalgic poem by Annette C. Boehm, taken from her debut poetry collection, The Knowledge Weapon, published by Bare Fiction.

Please accept this spirit
bottle as our gift.
Inside, the extracted specimen
has been carefully preserved.
Formalin may cause slight
hardening, changes in color,
perfect for such a soft body.
We’ve cut it wide open to show
it is constructed, like an egg,
of two concentric spheres.

The outside is synthetic
blue as you stomp through
anthills on a red dare, unscared,
run after him, into the under
growth, — you’re his,
you’re the wild one, you both
piss into the ravine.

Night comes with berry stains
on your shirt, your shorts
muddy, your knees black and glue
on your hands, arms marked
by brambles, lost ballpoint pens.

Inside, the smell of your father’s
repair shop, of soldering irons,
dust and grease and circuit boards
in a jungle of crates, blind vacuum
tubes and purple tins that clank, ready
to spill screws. You sit, tailor style,
between drips of lead
on the linoleum. Thirsty,
you reach out and drink.

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