The Hill

Image of a hill and the sky with little clouds.I never learned to flatter, to dove like a wisp of white grace, instead challenging boys to footraces and tackling them into grass stains, tumbling down the hill like green walnuts, fragrant and bitter. Eloquent slang eluded me, so when my brothers’ friends teased I made a hard fist and aimed for the weak bird between their legs. I was alligator, jaw and scales, and they were white- bellied fish, polishing my incisors. If I wanted, I could be the hero. If not, there was always the hill breaking our fall, my bruised shins, a smudge of mud across my shoulder.


Hannah Marshall lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and works at the library. Her poetry appears in The Best American Poetry, New Ohio Review, and elsewhere.

Photo Credit: solarisgirl

One Response to “The Hill”

  1. Bronwen Griffiths says:

    Absolutely loved this tiny story. Cheered me up too!

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