Above Highway 89, a boy dances barefoot across a metal tightrope. His arms held out wide, one foot in front of the other. Wind bites his face, his fingertips, his left knee peeking out of Goodwill jeans. The boy kisses back. In the clash of teeth and spit and air, he sees their wedding. Wind holds him tight, arms compressed against his hollow ribs, and when gravity takes hold, they exchange vows. In the church pews, there are birds. Bluejays, robins, warblers, even the white pigeons are allowed. Instead of rice, they throw rain. The newlyweds drive away in a carriage of clouds. 
            “Until death do us part.” 
                                                         Until- 
***
 it rained for a month. 
no one thought to tarp the merry go round or the slide or the swings. when the sun returned & dried the water, rust clung to metal. we couldn’t spin as fast. swing as high. slide as quick. after the chains snapped during a swing off & mary was sent flying, we stuck to hopscotch. a week later, we went through five boxes of chalk. mom said no more chalk. so, we jumped rope but no one wanted to sing the same rhyme. jump rope ended quick. bored, we went inside & said, “next summer. we’ll play next summer.” a year passed & june rolled around. the grass had grown tall, itchy, & dry. the rust had babies. we’ll play 
next summer. 
***

Chamomile flowers sprout from concrete. 
Bursting out of cracks destined to break 
                        a mother’s back;                                                                                     a bundle of gentle petals and
apple breeze. 
 A butterfly lands on an iron bench. Wings unfurl &
                    ochre and black and white                                          are on display.    
Overhead, 
the center of the universe 
smiles down.

Process

This poem is inspired by my experiences of night swimming at summer camp.