by Sterling Larsen
I fell from the swings once,
real high up.
I pumped
and pumped
’til my big toe
blotted out the sun.
The sky flipped upside down and
I slipped.
She loved him
like sick-sweet candy and fast cars,
but threw up on her wedding day,
holding back peroxide hair
and the veil
rented just for a day.
He doesn’t live here anymore.
Mom says they fell out of love,
not like on swings though
or chairs when you laugh hard,
but like dingy nickels
flicked on a smooth table
that buzz and blur and whir
’til they are dizzy or sick
and fall down
wob
wob
wob, wob, wob
click
I go in there sometimes
where the smell of pine lingers
where he used to hang his ties
in rows, like crayons
neat, by color
before Mom dumped them
with shouts and a suitcase
onto the lawn.
He comes back sometimes,
stuffed in an envelope
with a wrinkled five
and a tainted “happy birthday,”
but cards don’t give underdogs.
