Like the Dead Running

You could call this a ghost town
If it had been a town to begin with
Now it’s just empty cans and granola bar wrappers
Far too many footprints in the mud
And the smell of desperate human beings—
Like the unwashed hair of your mother
Like the dead running
When I find him
He is tied at the wrists between two tent stakes trapped under the earth by cinderblocks
Arms at 45 degree angles, as though his body were an arrow pointing to wherever is furthest away from here
The dull afternoon sun soaks into his bruises. Dried blood and matted hair hide his eyes
Too tall and too jagged
To be a child but a child still, he is smiling
“Do you know why they left me here?” he says
“They thought I was one of the bad guys.”
“Are you?” I ask
His voice, a great empty space, replies:
“I am now.”