There is one perfect age; 

where you climb onto the swing by yourself and 

your body is not too wide. 

You can smoke a cigarette and

drown the butt because you’re afraid of forest fires you 

drown yourself in Family Dollar body mist so 

your parents can’t smell the menthol sludge you didn’t inhale. 

The bottle in your backpack clinks against nothing as you pick it up

You want to get home before dark because

You’re afraid of your neighbor cop arresting you for 

swinging on a swingset and 

not smoking a cigarette. 

You need to get home because

You don’t know the people that come to this park after dark because they’re grown and besides

It’s closed after dusk.

You get home and 

the front door sticks and shines in damp, moggy air, 

you pull it closed and 

you reek of coconut and nicotine and outside but your mother doesn’t mind and 

welcomes you back to the house you tried to swing away from. 

You say nothing but “I love you” and 

She hands you a leash

You click it closed around a soft and scuzzy neck and

walk back from whence you came.

You are pulled past the park, and 

there are people, and 

they are smoking and

They are inhaling,

but 

They are not swinging.

One day soon 

you will be them. 

I promise

You will realize that this age was a flickering instant.

And you will not swing in the dark. 

Katharine Luzzatto is a writer and student from Suffolk, Virginia. Her work has previously appeared in Crow & Cross Keys and The College of William and Mary’s The Flat Hat. You can find her on Instagram @katharine.luzzatto, and on Substack @katharineluzzatto.