tag

I punched your shoulder—
tag, you’re it,
so it was your turn
to be a playful predator
and my turn to pant like it’s life-or-death
when it’s really run-or-rest,
like trick-or-treat,
you-or-me

and never both
because they conflict
and contradict,
playing their own game of tag, you’re it

where “base” is your bed,
the ampersand between our pronouns
and you always chase me there,
but the game’s over on arrival.

so I cover my eyes
and count aloud so you can hide.
And I can wish between the numbers:
“One…I…
two…wish…
three…it didn’t have to be like this,”

and at twenty I’m already hunting again,
and you are being hunted.

at least the rules are clear,
and our roles are clear,
when everything else is muddied like my knees
that prompt parental probing:
“What have you been up to?”

And boy, have I been up to something.