We bike the old route, as we always do,
to the nearest ice cream stand. Two bucks for toothache

on a cone. Nothing for stillness. You and I
are eleven and free. We measure time by the slap

of our jump-ropes against asphalt. Around us,
the slides and swings where we waste time

and call it fun. July’s breath on the ruffles
of our skirts, sun-soaked skin baking

into bruises. Here we are, by the stream, listening to
the gentle thrum of pebbles across water, just the earth and us,

zero-gravity, wondering where we could go from here:
the strawberry patch by the dirt road, the vintage bookstore

six miles south. Pink sugar dripping down
your chin, you say Let’s go home. We take our bikes,

our hands tacky, sticking to the handlebars and race
past pastures that whisper our names. Somehow, we end

up next to the broken treehouse that, I think, still stands
for us. The moldy floorboards, the dirty rooftop—

I see that it’s different now. This redwood can’t hold
the both of us anymore: it sinks with every step,

it cracks with every touch, my shadow snags
on a nail and drifts by the window, dusty and damp,

like an old kite. I could leave this place
alone and feel okay. So I run the county lines

while you run late. I run and run and run, sweating away
the heat of all those years, until I can’t recognize your chessboard smile,

your Cinderella mind, until the swings creak and ache
and the pastures forget my name.