She flies —

belly down:

like Peter Pan —

hair floating:

like static —


like waves.

Pauses, at the top,

because you have to breathe some time,

and swings back, always back, always again:

“Watch me daddy!”

And I stand

in the same grass

and she imparts a ball

with another command:

“Throw it to the sky!”

And another: “Higher!”

And another: “Give it to me!”

Because she needs to try:

Her short arms toss it over her head, to me, and I hide it.

And there, then she believes:

That she has the power:

to hurl something into the heavens and make it stick.

But then her lips — in a soft, gaping, wondrous oval —

mold to a knowing smirk: 
 “You have it!”

And she chases

and chases

and chases

and we spin

and spin

and spin

and spin

and fly, together,

in air too precious to breathe.


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