Swing Set

Photo by Jerry Zhang on Unsplash

Rooted in earth, anchored by steel beams

the wrought iron swing set stands abandoned

a glider hangs inert, the swing empty

on the day I entered school.

At eight, I press my face between

iron poles, listening to Dukie tell

how he entered a haunted house.

A huge garden spider suddenly darts

between us, squeezing under the shingles.

Dukie scoops it out with a garden tool

chases me with its dangling remains.

Jerry and I swing madly on the glider

ignoring his little sister wandering

into its path. A gory gash opens her brow

we wait for fathers to return home

to mete out our sentence.

By twelve, I can pump the swing higher

than the top of the a-frame standard.

Stories of kids flying over the top

to crumple to the ground thunder

in my head. The iron beams shift

as I pump higher and higher.

At fifteen, I use the swing set to climb the fence

sneaking out to lie with Jerry in the grass

I return home, steal up the back stair

Mom looks up from the kitchen table

and chills me with a Medusa glare.

The legacy of my older sister tarnishes

The joy of my willful youth.

Forty-five, cleaning my parents’ house

bearded iris still border the wall

where a spider met its doom.

Chain-link fence bares no evidence

of youthful sin. Ghost stories

filter through the breeze that stirred

an empty swing long ago.

Deep ruts where iron beams once lay

now fill with silt and garden duff.

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