what the rope on that
tree saw
gravity lulled the swing back
the swing of greying board
the fraying rope on the
right, discolored and cold
was no twin to the twine
of the left
hand side
she dangled
limp and gaunt
left to haunt the hanging tree
the day the broker moved
into the tree’s backyard
he laced his hands
in burlap and
tossed a line into deep fog
in surprise the line grew
taught and the rope
wound like witches fingers smelling
of ivy and gingersnaps
she beckoned and her wolfhound sang
so he took the line
and he took the swing
and snipped the seat
in the wind the rope’s hair
unfurled and when broker’s happy feet
blended over each
other he tripped up vertical
his toes dangling and
the careless twine
cleaved against her weight
to hold another lover
aloft with molted wings
when it was done
and another broker
moved into the backyard
the splayed fingers of rope
were forced to prayer
and she bore another child.
©2014 Lex Vex
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