The Boy Next Door
by Keren Klimovsky
When I was seven, the boy next door was in love with me.
Red-headed, freckled, and fat.
He didn’t speak about his love.
He would do anything to please me.
He knew I loved animals.
So he brought me animals.
Those he could find.
He would bring grasshoppers clenched in his fist
like a bouquet of flowers.
He would bring caterpillars on the palm of his hand,
as if they were jewels.
He would bring a handful of ladybugs,
and a shoebox full of ants,
like a box of chocolate candies.
And he never caught any butterflies:
I wouldn’t like it.
And in return, I was his friend.
And in return, I let him watch
the most sacred ritual of all:
how I took the snails off the stout street lamps,
so they wouldn’t roast alive.
And next morning they climbed up again –
the stupid snails – just wouldn’t listen,
but he did, the boy next door,
listened to my ramblings,
and nodded, and a smile spread across his round face.
And he brought me more grasshoppers, caterpillars and ladybugs.
Every day I was showered by gifts.
I was a queen.