Paris RosemontI remember the game of knuckles we used to play as kids in the dirt lane
behind the old storage sheds, corrugated rooves lined with squished
flesh of fermenting persimmons. I found it unsettling the way we kept
disembodied knuckles rattling around inside old shoeboxes; though boxes
of severed limbs with knuckles intact would have been even more dis
concerting. They were painted in bold, bright acrylics; eventually fading
with wear. The best ones were lacquered with nail varnish — licks of shiny
magic. I coveted these treasures like a bower bird hoarding blue.
I still don’t know where all the knuckles came from—what hapless creatures
had been mutilated to indulge our childish whimsies. I retired early
from the game one blistering afternoon, crying foul over a match. Stakes had
been high — my prized polished knuckle on the line for Tommy’s flame
tree beauty. I accused him of cheating; refused to hand over my knuckle.
Detecting a glint of demon in his eye, I backed down; offered a rematch.
Without breaking his reaper’s gaze, he prised the knuckle from my grip; knocked
me to the ground. My punctured hymen splattered the drought, wetting
the earth’s clay; terracotta pigment staining my dress, my clenched bone white
knuckles. He instructed me to keep my stupid trap shut — said that if I squealed,
he would come wee wee wee to hunt me down; claim me all over again.
Pocket the pretty little knuckle on my pinkie as his trophy.
