Tell it like a story, tell it like this -

 

that there was pink milk in an apple-tree playground. That a bigger girl in a dirndl

skirt lifted you into the small, square swing and pushed down the wooden bar

to hold your legs tight. That Miss Withers came and swung you higher and higher,

up into the canopy. That there was sun. That apple-blossom twirled like ballerinas.

 

Don’t say you heard the scream –

 

that another child was falling, blood, all the grown-ups running, the lesson-bell …

the playground suddenly evil with silence, the swing going

                                                                                    slower and slower

                                                                                                                  slower and

                                                                                                               slower.  

 

Don’t tell how it felt, how the swing became a trap - rope-burns on your arms,

raw welts on your legs for days; that there was scolding and tears, no more sun.