This poem has a rope swing in it,
tied to the limb of a sprawling oak.

My older sister is here
with her high school friends

and my voice calling, Wait for me,
as everyone runs barefoot

to the ancient tree, its branches
arching high over moving water.

If I am afraid to grab the thick knot
and leap, I can watch my sister do it first.

She might brush back her red hair
before swinging off into brown water,

and her friends might clap, but I will bite
my lip until her head pops up.

If she waves her arms to beckon me in,
I might not forgive myself

for stepping back from the edge,
for not sailing into the exact moment

of release, not letting my body fall
on purpose into danger

because I can’t help imagining
myself clawed downstream, my cries

mauled by the growling current,
my sister’s screams of happiness

too distant to supply my breath
as I slip under and away from shore.