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Backyard Trampoline
Michael Shaw
Where they taught me jumps,
somersaults, how to
back flip, front flip,
how to
keep from crying when you
fall off the edge, how to
lie to Mom about that
mark on your face.
Black thick straps
wove together into a basket for
the bunch of us, reaching down
to the dirt with each linty sock jump.
Where Tyler spent his time,
when he wasn’t pushing me over during
cul-de-sac catch or carving kill
into my neighbor’s back porch.
Where he pinned me to my shoulders
to teach me how to
react when you’re pinned
by your shoulders, how to
react when you’re slapped
while pinned by your shoulders, how to
react when your friend says
“I heard Ty beat you up”
after Wednesday night
church, how to
lie to Mom about that
mark on your face.
Fall, 2016 Issue
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