by Charlie Fox
A night full of shadows, we approached Mellin Park to the left of the cul de sac; I always thought it was melon.
After she died, a storm inhaled us, boys twirling
curiously into men beneath the blanket of clouds
overhead like werewolves under a full moon. We dared
the clouds to change us. Stood on monkey bars.
Remembered the days when we thought the jungle gym
was made of candy and the grass field reached the end
of the earth.
After she died, that sweet melon in my mind became a rine—juiceless, rotten.
Clouds strike overhead like how men’s heads
look for something on the ground and how
white hands reach into cavities and crannies
feeling for feelings. New men saying nothing
and everything at once with arms hung from
the green monkey bars and way too heavy
footsteps on the mulch, brown platforms.
After she died, I couldn’t help but feel unreal in my grief. Raincloud overhead: mellinsized. Theirs the size of their mother.
Charlie Fox is a native of Chicago, Illinois and a devout Roman Catholic. He began writing poetry at age eight and hasn’t stopped since. He is grateful to his mentors along the way: Jesus Christ, Professors Brandon Woods and David Marshall of the Latin School of Chicago, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Gerard Manley Hopkins and many others. Charlie is also grateful to NYU, Simona Blat, and the entire Dovetail team for helping edit and publish these poems. God bless you all! (visit www.charliefox.space for more info).