By Shelly Stewart Cato
Maybe he has magic to keep himself alive
forever, says my little boy,
palms parallel to the floor,
elbows pulled in like a chubby T-Rex.
He grins and flaps and smoochy-lips
himself in the aqua glass.
A murder of teenagers captures it all.
Shelly Stewart Cato holds an MFA from Sewanee School of Letters. She won the 2021 Nancy D. Hargrove Editors’ Prize for Poetry and was a finalist for Rattle’s 2020 Poetry Prize. Work is forthcoming in Poet Lore, Washington Square Review, and Harpur Palate. She writes near the Warrior River in Walker County, Alabama, and is passionate about genre-bending and short forms.