Past the Fairyland Sign
Imani Diltz


The lake is a cursed place.
And footsteps easily
mold new paths
only right if tread by the
same
feet, with the same
stagger.
I’ve never been good with my hands in
the stone skipping sense
only in the
way of
breathlessness,
only in the way of
skipped hearts like pebbles I
still feel in the
soles of my shoes.
Like a reminder of a good trip.
Swing sets now
monuments,
I’d like to go back
to before this sidewalk
was littered with memories,
to lift the
paths from this pavement,
until I can walk a new
way again.
How does the wind
apologize to the flowers for
ripping them out of the dirt?
How does
Winter reconcile with
Earth
and become Spring?
How do I make these swings
synonymous with childhood like
 

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