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The SwingThese afternoons haveThe Swing
a certain sway. From the angle of her neck since dad's tilted the tv
on the mantle, to the arguments.
Some peanut shells broken, crumbs in the grain of the table; my palms spread, shaking the salt off and the question strung between
the chewing, like a nerve. Sometimes I tell her, I can't leave. And she'll slant her head, say, You can. And we
sit there, creaking. Rubber swings.
by ~accepted
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How is you? [this is Becky, by the way
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My knight in shining armor turned out to be a loser in aluminum foil...
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