by My shadow has sat heavy in this place
that isn’t mine—
on the swing set
with the creaking, shrieking chains
that bit my fingers, wild
things, as they filled
my mouth with sky,
on the slide
that I had long outgrown,
twisting like a lock of hair
or like a lie, that bright and
static-sprinkled
thing I’d lay upon
as I’d pretend to fall,
on the metal rock wall,
glinting coolly, a dragon
in a plaything’s shape, a
thing I mounted only once
and thought myself free
—and sits there, still,
the only old thing that remains.
by A.J.
Our Own Words 
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