IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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SPITTING IN THE LEAVES

Maggie Anderson

In Spanishburg there are boys in tight jeans, mud on their cowboy boots and they wear huge hats with feathers, skunk feathers they tell me. They do not want to be in school, but are. Some teacher cared enough to hold them. Unlike their thin disheveled cousins, the boys on Mantoaka's Main Street in October who loll against parking meters and spit into the leaves. Because of them, someone will think we need a war, will think the best solution would be for them to take their hats and feathers, their good country manners and drag them off somewhere, to Vietnam, to El Salvador. And they'll go. They'll go from West Virginia, from hills and back roads that twist like politics through trees, and they'll fight, not because they know what for but because what they know is how to fight. What they know is feathers, their strong skinny arms, their spitting in the leaves.

 
 
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