The park where I swing at midnight,
where I once choked on pills
and boys hide glitter-eyed in the pavilion
calling me by my red hair, asking for a light.

A lifetime laced across the picnic table,
fortunes scratched in splintered wood
while clammy handed, impatient, I catch fire
my mouth around a metal pipe.

In times like these, it helps to be
moon-vacant and crystal cut,
anyone’s convenient circumstance
hidden in public space.

Chain link glides icy smooth, painful
between fingertips. Touch me
and I’ll keep secrets,
like the playground I can be
tagged with any name, vandalized
and given new meaning.