by Zoë Hitzig

It’s still my turn on the playground, go,
jump-rope, go, blue rope slashing ground,
whirl slap, whirl slap, splats into a mangled sine,
blue snake twitching through time, am I the blue
snake glitching this time, am I the conveyor
belt pinching toward the mouth of the loading place,
had I known in those come on go girl days
the permanence of this geometry, had I known
the rope, its epicycles ever-cycling, arms like spokes
spinning at the ropes’ poles, the rest of us strobing
on the sidelines, thrumming, waiting our turn, turn
to enter, enter game, when my turn came in those
come on go girl days I’d’ve sat on the asphalt, right there,
and let the snake weave its way through me.

Published on January 27, 2021

First published in Harvard Review 56.