I was twirling the rope swing
around its black maple.
A man came out of the house.
He was not my father
but he spoke with his voice.
I was afraid. I ran to the rock garden.
The boulders I hopped on
in my youth, became unrecognizable.
One must have contained iron—
when it rained I was burned
by streaks of fire.
Trenton Pollard has work forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, Lambda Literary, Plenitude, and elsewhere. Originally from Michigan, he has worked as a welder, massage therapist, political organizer, and poetry teacher. He lives in New York City, with occasional furloughs in Austin, Texas. He is currently the Nonfiction Editor of Columbia Journal Online.