Swing

Tim Horton’s has one white string

attached to the ceiling and it sways

so slow from side to side. The swing

of your childhood rocked even after

you stopped bending your knees or pulling

the chains. Put one finger to the right door

and it will cry all the way open

like a heart cupped in quiet hands.

You do not remember the taste

of your first kiss, but can still feel

her warm, milky breath and falling

back from its very softness. An elm leaf

waits a lifetime to lilt back and forth

in the autumn breeze, and just as soon

as its caught in the crisp, yellow grass,

it whispers, again and

again and again,

please.

Josiah Nelson is an MFA in Writing student and sessional lecturer at the University of Saskatchewan. His work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Spry Literary Journal, U.S. Catholic Magazine, Vast Chasm Magazine, Blank Spaces, and the Rumpus. His story "Hair, Teeth" placed third in Fractured Lit’s 2021 Monsters, Mystery, and Mayhem contest. He lives in Saskatoon.