Treseler poem schoolyard

November and the metallic whine of schoolyard
swings trawls me back to the confused daze
of childhood in which the only rules stricter

than my mother’s nuns were my own bylaws:
rules of affinity and avoidance; of keeping
things out or carefully held in; midday

recess a game of kickball with boys, if they’d
have me; coed tag; dodging Maeve’s acid
taunts like the salt baths taken for fever.

Always, some ill-timed birth. Some travel
between woman and …

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