Indian Rock Farm Road

An aged birdbath serves as an eerie reflection
of its once white color,
reminded by the flakes and chips of paint
strewn about the unkempt lawn,
as it splits the symmetry of the backyard.
The two paddleboats overturned,
tarpaulin-adorned,
adjacent to the Sunfish in their resting places
of off-season months.

The old wooden swing there between the trees
creates a shadowed hideout when the sun is high.
How it caused turmoil among siblings and cousins—
“Open Sesame,” some could enter.
“To the dungeon,” others could not.
The chains that supported the swing
cost Mark the tip of his youth
and backyard football stardom.
“Better a finger than his life,” Aunty Laurel said.
Severed, it dangled from the chain,
forever tainted like the thick rope
that hung loosely from the big oak tree.

There, up on the hill,
an old couple used to summer there.
They were always “discontent with their marriage.”
That’s what our parents told us.
But we knew something happened.
We were told to stay away from that tree,
because of its story and all.