by Jennifer H. Dracos-Tice
Six years old, hair streaming,
you pointed your toes
toward the undersides of maples
branching through powerlines
looping over the school yard. You rose
from your seat, thumped
on the downswing, pulled the chains,
leaned into the next up-swerve.
Did you kick your saddle shoes
into the littered leaves, did you launch
into crinkled air, did she,
did she, see you there?
When the back legs of the swing-set lifted
from their concrete bases as you swung,
did she, the one who gave you up, who watched
(inside the Packard parked across the street?
behind the oak tree just out front?)
did she bite her inside lip,
did she lean and call
don’t slip?
Jennifer H. Dracos-Tice has poems published or forthcoming in Psaltery & Lyre, Crab Orchard Review, San Pedro River Review, Stirring, Still: The Journal (2016 Judge’s Choice Award), and other publications. A long-time high school English teacher, she lives just outside of Atlanta with her wife and their kids. Jen can be reached at jendracostice@gmail.com.
Twitter: @JenDracosTice
Instagram: @jendt1