Poem by Simona Blat





Past the kitchen, lined with jars of yellow fruit
jammed  from  a  seedling,  I  go  out  and walk
across the lea. It is hot early and all the children
are gone. The playground is a void crowded by
wet garments. Nothing but two swings in space
and my kookla wearing red, mouth chiseled into
a sickle. On top of the hot rubber, I bend at the
knees,   using  my  arms,   swinging  my  hips,
shaking my body,   the little  mama  of  the  sky.
When she falls, I jump. Her eyes pop out and
roll away. The bugs coming in on them. I land
like a rag and the bone of my arm shoots out
of home. There isn’t much time. We lie on the
grass like dogs. Bleary and split, red on the red