Five Finger

The security guard has the kid by the elbow,

right by the sliding glass doors where the wind gets in.

The kid is looking at his sneakers, his face a hot red,

and I’m standing by the register with a gallon of milk.

I look at the peppermint gum on the wire rack.

I used to know the exact weight of a pack

sliding into the pocket of a denim jacket.

The way the silver foil would crinkle and sing.

A dry, sharp sound against the bone of my hip.

I didn't even want the sugar, I just wanted the heat

of walking past the cameras and the bored clerk

without my heart jumping out of my throat.