Phoenix

The chainlink bites

the fleshy part of her hands.  She bleeds,

but Mommy always says no tears.

The September sky darkens, but

the lights are very bright. She climbs

a little higher to catch

the familiar scent of car exhaust;

wind streams her red scarf

like a banner, rocks

her tiny body back and forth.

She digs in so as not to fall and

for a heartbeat she feels

like a beetle, the kind

she sees amble around home

when Mommy forgets

to clean the spills.

The wind subsides a little,

she climbs higher. Her hands find

the top rail, leave

a salty red print. She feels

very tall: Mommy would be proud.

She leans over the fence

and stares at the grass ten feet below.

Peeking at the highway, she locks

eyes with a passenger-seat boy,

about her age, in a blue

minivan. His mouth gapes,

front teeth missing but

she blinks and he disappears,

neck craned in the distance

and maybe he thinks she looked

not like a beetle but perched like a bird and

for the first time no ceiling contains her.

She spreads her arms,

wishes she could fly, but

Mommy needs her home.

She swings one leg over and

then the other to descend.