by CL Bledsoe
I think it was under the slides, so I steer
her to the swings. She’s never liked
that feel of weightlessness, the thin
strip of rubber chained down while she
is left to rise. She pedals a too small
tricycle someone left, runs across vacant
grass. There’s no sign he was here.
The sand pit might look less full. A guy
at work said he was in a Salvadoran gang,
or at least one has been leaving bodies
lately. The news said everyone was surprised
because this is such a nice neighborhood,
which is code for no Salvadorans live here.
I waited three weeks before her begging
overwhelmed my caution. There’s no
line, anymore, at least. She can take
as long on the monkey bars as she likes.