The swingset had
stilled and did not
play with him, though
would move a girl soon
and make its fun for her.
She was relocated, put to
Chicago with new parents, given
to swinging on the front lawn with
an older brother who’s skin was
problematic and smelled of medicines.
While she unseated
herself from the swing at
its highest point forward,
and dropped to giggling there,
he itched his arms, a
nervous, as well as chemical
disorder, and the one in which
she would use to tease and
anger him once she
became comfortable
in his family.
“Your turn! Your turn!” she shouted.
“No, you go again.” he advised.
He preferred to
push her on the swing,
and not swing, himself.
It was his swing, though he’d
grown too big, and the thing was
being eaten by rust,
which was a parasite,
like he was being eaten by his rust,
which was a condition.
“–tell you that, well, son... you’re
going to have a little sister soon.”
“Mom’s gonna have a baby?”
“No no, not this time, bug.”
The crossbeam and joints whined and
groaned above the swinging chains and
seat, but she certainly enjoyed it.
“Push!”
“Higher?”
“Push me!”
“Higher?”
He wondered what would happen if
the swingset gave out, if it collapsed.
Would the metal fall on her?
Would she be flung from the seat?
Would it just buckle and set her down?
Would it fall on him?
The sunlight made him itch.
The clouds had vanished a week.
“Higher?”
“Higher!”
The seat was jarring her.
He scratched his arms.
The chains were grinding and
the rusting joints were voicing distress.
