The Swing Set

Sitting on a plastic seat next to the glider,
Holding the chains that freed me to the sky,
I listened to the creaking
And grinding
Grate, crack
Creak, grind
Of metal on metal,
Shaking the bright red frame of the backyard swing set,
Writing my first poems
In songs that labored to rhyme.

As I moved higher and higher,
Closer each move to the upper branches
Of the pecan tree
(Could I touch the buds with my toes?),
I felt safe from critical eyes,
Writing words not graded,
The hands of Jesus
Pushing me from behind.

The Office

Both Saint and Sinner

The horse loved man, but
He bucked at my approach,
And I watched in horror
As the stallion rose and fell,
Rose and fell again,
And his cry was louder than I would have expected,
And I saw his teeth as he sputtered an echo of creation.

“I thought he was tame,” I said to my uncle
Who, with hand on my shoulder, kneeled to my ear,
“The sinner may be broken,
But the nature lies and waits.”

There is no beauty in my wildness.
Within my savage gaze there is no light.