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