The Swing
by Vincent Coscolluela
Trampled-on grass exhale tiny green breaths
as I cross the empty playground.
Enough "space to think" in, more
than a "breath of fresh air". My shadow
trails after me, shortened by the moon.
In the wind a swing
creaks like the joint of a familiar bone.
I steady it with my hand
but feel it still struggling for a sway.
Everywhere the monkey bars
seem charged, bracing themselves
as if anticipating weight. A ribbon
some girl left is coiled near a bar, poised
like a red snake with a red tongue.
As kids, what did we learn from all that
play? Everyone seemed busy.
Someone was always it, recklessly reaching
for someone to hold. Bruised egos,
scraped knees: casualties of the game.
The queen of flowers opened us and closed us
like petals. Singing rhymes, we danced
as a group; we learned the first moves.
We realized the see-saw
needed two people thrusting successively
for a rhythm to start.
And of the swing, I remember
always touching someone, then pushing her away,
touching her, then pushing her away.
Literature Section

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