Unclasping your small hand from that of your mother, you waddle toward the squat
tunnel entrance. On all fours now, you crawl down and the sound of feet- stamping,
aboveground, insistent- reverberates through tight passages. In unlit parts they wail
and lament, those baby-bodied boys younger even than you. You squirm up a rough-
hewn pathway, rubbing raw soft palms and knees. When you reach the last platform
day pierces unpeeled retinas. You peer out the thick glass streaked through with snot
and sweat, and watch as flabby torsos with ears pricked up dig holes and give chase.
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