Blood Brothers
July 27 2008


Oaks are perfect for tree forts,
with their heavy spreading branches
and dense cover of leaves;
perfect
for keeping secrets.

It wasn’t built by dads, but by us.
From found wood, scrounged nails
— bent, a bit of rust —
before safety
bubble-wrapped childhood.
And finished up
with a radio
a deck of cards
some stolen smokes.
And no girls
— ever!

There was a secret password, of course
you swore you’d never tell.
And no kid brothers allowed.
When a new boy moved in
he was initiated into the tribe,
a ritual I still feel honour-bound to hide.
Let’s just say
we were blood brothers
when we made our vows.

Rendezvous at noon, in summer —
food scoffed from the fridge,
comic books.
But the best part was looking down;
which is something
when you feel powerless.
Kids, who wanted to grow up too fast
in our half-way house,
before the first turncoat turned his back
and we saw him kissing a girl.


No one ever fell,
no one was ever hurt.
But all it took was one more summer
before we all came down to earth.