The Top Of The Maple Tree
Sunday at the park.
I swung,
Swung.
And I reached.
Reached for the top of the Maple tree.
And it became 1969.
And I was nine.
I was nine.
And I swung.
Swung.
And I reached,
Reached for words
Words said
Words not said.
And I became La Boheme.
And La Boheme became 9.
And it was 1969.
And it was Coconut Grove' public park.
The public library stared at the swings
While Rimbaud waited for his turn.
Oh Rimbaud knew how to wait for his turn!
And the public library cried.
For it did not have this poem inside.
For it did not have this poem inside.
And La Boheme swung.
And her hair did not fly.
Her hair did not fly.
La Boheme's hair:
The worms of Rimbaud's armpits.
The anguish of Auschwitz.
The tears of Yoko Ono.
The worms, anguish and tears finally fled.
They fled past the Maple Tree and onto the street!
And La Boheme's children watched.
Her children watched
And wanted a turn at the swings.
But La Boheme was selfish.
She was selfish.
For she was nine again.
She held hands tight,
tight around the yellow plastic
encasing the chains that protected
her aging hands.
Rimbaud took the swing next to her
And showed her what it takes.
And Rimbaud's wrist bled
And Rimbaud's amputated leg reached,
reached for the top of the Maple tree.
When I got off the swing,
My legs shook like a women
without intercourse for years.
My right nipple ached,
and pinched inside a black padded bra.
Rimbaud’s poem stirred in the pit of my belly.
I wished to vomit the words onto the pavement.
Instead, I flinched as my children took their turn
And wondered if they would remember
the day Rimbaud and their mother reached,
Reached to the top of the Maple Tree.
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Didi Menendez is the producer for several digital magazines. She is a single parent living in Miami, Florida.
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