I can feel the weight in my toes once I really get swinging.
The rope feels rough in my palms in just the right way
and the wooden seat that I press in to when I stretch my legs back out,
well, I wish it dug in a little harder.
My stomach does a little skip at the highest point.
It knows we’re on our way down before my body can even follow.
And I have to admit I hate that part the most
even though I disguise the panic by letting my head roll back
and my hair trail along the ground,
collecting leaves and twigs on the way.
And on the short little climb back up,
the sun twinkles just so
and I fake a little smile
because I’ve learned the rhythm well enough
to know there’s only time for a spurt of a giggle
before I kick back at the knees
lean forward back into the abyss
and I pretend to know it all here too.
But it’s impossible to see what’s lurking behind you
or who’s out to get you in the most tricksy way
when you’re swinging backwards