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The Swing
by David Slavin

The first push is a shove,
then you and your dad achieve a rhythm.
His hand, at the small of your back,
urges you further, higher.

Frog kick, as he taught you.
It's got to work this time;
for you and him.

Last time it was your mom that pushed,
but she would only let you go so high
cradled in the leather seat,
falling toward the sand.

Now it is your dad.
There are no excuses.
No net between you and the earth.
Only open sky
from the palm of your father's hand
to the top of the arc
where the chains go slack
and you become weightless.


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