Hop In Maya
by Irena Ioannou
She was urged into the back
of the pickup truck, as soon as
Ricky was picked up by the school bus.
She couldn’t accept that he knew,
although his eyes seemed wider lately.
Maya had also seen how his father’s face
lit up when the phone rang
and darkened again afterwards.
She had noticed there were no more
bones or leftovers around,
how the mother let her loose
every morning, whispering, “You’re lucky, Maya.”
Lately, the mother had begun the habit
of opening and closing all the doors,
the fridge’s, the cupboards’, sighing.
The night before, Ricky offered Maya
a dry lump of sorts he had hidden
in his pocket; his mother’s eyes glistened.
When father stopped driving,
at the wrong side of the city, Maya
jumped off the back of the truck on her own.