by Carol Casey
The August sun has almost spun the straw
to gold in the large stack behind the barn.
We take turns sliding down its side, whooping
in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling.
Not sure why I go down backward, push off
so hard. I land with a thump on almost bare
ground. I get up, start to holler at my friends.
No air comes in. No words get out.
I stand there, frozen, more akin to straw,
barn, sun—all that doesn’t breathe.
I peer into a threshold for a time too short for
dread but long enough for a whisper of kismet.
Then, as quickly, something unclenches.
I welcome the air like lost love found, cough
a bit, run back to the others, join the play
because it’s summer and we’re kids.
And the August sun has almost spun the straw
to gold in the large stack behind the barn.
We take turns sliding down its side, whooping
in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling.