I sit on either side of the seesaw
one dip, two dip
I grab at grass as I ascend
There will be only two ways to go
never less and never more.
I sit on either side of the seesaw
with either my tongue slipping out of the corner of my mouth
or my lips zipped shut-
the key stuck in the mud
beneath the grass my fingers touch.
I sit on either side of the seesaw
heart pounding ferociously
or still as stone
never less and never more
I will die thrillingly and half-grown.
Curse the dozens for inviting the diver
I sit on the plank, watching the sky
either I fly
or I skim the mud with my thighs.
Halfway up to the sky, I begin to cry
because I am reminded
that the high always ends with my fingers reaching for the mud,
and not the pale blue sky.
I want to stay in the middle for once.
I want my hands to stay with me,
not the sky or the mud-
I want my feet on the grass
my hands on the metal.
I am floating in between
neither low,
nor in peak
– drop
mud on my slacks.
Here I go again.
–
See you in another day,
SA