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Sally Bliumis-Dunn – II





I remember the thick

wooden seesaw of first grade,

painted a glossy red,

sitting on it with Phoebe,


the toes of our white Keds

barely grazing

the playground pebbles.


I have no desire to

go back, it’s just that today

there’s something

in the cool March air


like the metal arc in the middle

of that seesaw

which held it to the bar,


allowing us to balance

before we’d  take turns


pushing off from the ground.