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it’s a tuesday afternoon in late may
a group of teenage boys have cut classes after lunch,
gone up to the leader’s house. he lives
near campus. they grab the case of keystone light
they’ve hidden in the milk carton buried in a hole
where they keep their stash,
there is music. mellow and loud.
each one of them lost in thought,
they’ll head to san diego soon as a group,
because they still need each other.
aren’t brave enough to
go anywhere on their own.

they sail down sir francis drake boulevard
through san anselmo and passed fairfax,
adolescent boys are rarely wanted-
a collective menace, like all the rest, this pack
needs to be alone in the wild.
soon the young sequoias will litter the winding road.
a creek. a few horses. turkey vultures circling.

they’ll never be this free again.
somehow they know and appreciate
every minute, every person in the truck, every blessing.

the inkwells are small, deep, dark pools
in lagunitas and forest knolls.
on this perfect tuesday in may at one o’clock
the wells are empty expect for these boys.
they walk down a crumbly path to the right of
inkwells bridge to get to the beautiful,
swimmable pools along lagunitas creek.
there are two of them, one bigger than the other.
there are rocks to jump off of and sun to bask in.

the jump from the bridge into the smaller pool
is just far enough to cause fear and elicit bravery.
the depth of the pool uncertain,
the edges tight, constricting,
a few beers open them up,
as well as the need to defy the odds
to be noticed. to be a man.
the boys take turns leaping from the bridge
into the dark inkwells, leaving their imprints
in water dripping from their young bodies
on the rocks as the sun sets. they don’t
need to bother to constructing stories.

this is the end. these are the last days.
they can’t imagine from where else
they will need to jump,
in what other ways
they’ll need to become men.