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Resurrection
MCLEOD LOGUE
Remember the playground’s pebbles, rooting
together in that flesh tone, so flat they almost
looked invisible? The sound of one plastic shoe
scraping against the other’s sole–a mountain of open
mouths closed with a shudder. Little bodies, our guts
still swollen from drinking rusted water from a hose
in gulps. Mulch manifested, that scene still smells
from all those years ago. Remember the sun?
Hanging like loose skin, like my own dark hair
upside down against the plastic film of the slide. Even
then, I always let my body run like a facet: wreckless.
My arms, slack after hours of dangling from monkey
bars, daring someone’s son to hold my waist, yank
me down if they could. Remember the first kiss
we witnessed, pursed lips under the arc of the drainage
pipe that led nowhere? The smacking sound echoed back,
some lost call that returned warped. I looked for it
everywhere, each time I found a hole to peer into.
When I asked later, you called it a sting, a scything.
Like being splintered. Silly me. I thought you’d taught
me something. Remember the first time you ever saw
your own blood? I do. Chin tilted back like an arrow,
the weightless drop before my swing’s seat should go
solid beneath me. But it didn’t, slipped past my knees
instead. I felt my own head hot, the sound of metal
slapping against itself, the smell of pebbles sowing
into my neck. You were there, silent and cold. Brave
enough to walk me home. Remember?
McLeod Logue is a poet from Birmingham, Alabama. She received her MFA from the University of North Carolina Wilmington, where she taught creative writing. Her work has appeared in print in The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume X: Alabama. She can be found online in Blackbird, The Pinch Journal, The Nashville Review, and mcleodlogue.com. Instagram: @_abbyvogue
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