Written by Molly Knox
Art by Michael Morse
Our tree swing was cut. / blue, broken, slain. / Torn open
Threads frayed, split like the ends of muddy summer hair. Not theirs. / Peeled apart to forget
and fill out, the dotted lines / Over our grassy hill/ Dehiscence of burnt string
No one plays here. / Dissolving our rule of thumb/ The aroma of empty cut grass
When did you grow up?
Across the blue bridge / Anymore / Paint the tarmac, plug it
With clay and moths / Their laughter / It droops from the branch, what is left
Not since they decided / Don’t cut it. / Fill their stomachs
Protect their playground / Our play. / Blue.
Cut it down.