Linda Ann Loschiavo

My youngest sister’s dying first. That’s not
How it’s supposed to be — — thoughts I push hard,
Harder, the small soprano in the swing
Flying to greet the blue with her high C.
She has her mother’s eyes, and begs for more
With promises she will hold on! — — a good girl
Who’s never-never-bound. Soon she won’t fit
In this contraption, chubby legs too close
Already to the frame. I’ve just explained:
Some things grow fast like cedars — — massing thick
Enough to matter, so strong they repel
Most other forces. High above us now
Cedars shield us from wind, block the cold rooms
Where promise grows, exposing flesh closer
To bones, a chest without hope, a matter
Of time. Trees near this playground stir, newborn.

Swift cedar waxwings bring their young treats, greet
A vast horizon, optimistic might,
As I try pushing so much weight away.

A girl on a swing, returns to me, again, again,
Protected, safe, and saved. Hold on, my love. Hold on!