Porch Swing

MEGAN FILES


Mostly, I remember that porch.

The one with the slate-painted wooden planks

squeaking under step and

the swing with chains pulled so taut under our happy weight

they would grind themselves to powder

 

The electrons in my fingers remember the sudden drop in pressure

God’s deep inhale before a soliloquy

the air still as untouched dust

Only a rebel hatchling, safe in her lofted nest

breaks the silence in an unprecedented bout of nerve

 

I remember the purple darkness

the swarming of clouds overhead

Fresh grass cut loose rolling in the wind

shaking pear trees

whose fruit dangles dangerously

 

Dissonant chords wind themselves between the

leaves all blown sideways as if

pointing “that way”

That way is the exit

Yet we stay

 

I remember the feel of drums rolling through the field

tumbling over the floorboards

up our legs

into our pounding hearts

threatening to cave in our still thumping chests

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