When I was six years old, I liked to push a swing so high
that all I saw between my lifted sneakers was the sky
and then I would let go the chains and jump, hoping to soar.
I'd land on dewy grass and jump right up again for more.
When I was twelve years old, a brown-eyed boy swung next to me.
In soccer, we were last picked; on the swing set, we were free –
until one day he turned his back and I was left apart
to push my shoes into the sand and out-swing my own heart.
When I am in my thirties, maybe someday there will be
a little daughter or a son who will be asking me
to push them from behind or patch them up after they fall
and by their smiles, remind me why I liked swings after all.
But right now, I am twenty-two, and really should stay clear.
The frame creaks and the chains cut through my hips because, I fear,
my backside is too big. What's more, my cell phone starts to ring
There's nothing quite so awkward as a grown-up on a swing.