JASON B. CRAWFORD

Gravity

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I  was  10  years  old  and my  grandparents  had  this  amazing  swing  slide
combo  set,   you  know,   the  all   wooden   elephant  we  would  turn  our
bodies  into  such  magnificent  creatures  for  until  our   lungs   became  a
crackling  sound  barrier,   my  favorite  thing  was  the  swing,   the  breath
Tarzaning   it’s   way   in   cool   autumn  air,   and   I’m   not  sure   how   it
actually  happened,  the  falling,  the  shattering  of  the silent  boy,  I  must
have  been  thinking  about  math  or  karate   or  how  much  I  didn’t  like
gym  class  but  loved  the  parachute day,  who  didn’t  love  the  parachute
day,  the only  day  you  would  get  to  be  engulfed  by  so  many beautiful
colors and no one had a label for it,  so  it  felt                     safe,                     I
guess  maybe  that’s what  I  was  thinking  about  when  it   happened,  me
gliding  through  the  dirt  palms  forward,  the  splitting   hair  of  bone  in
the  arm  and  can  you  blame  the  boy  for  weaving  such   soft   wrists;   I
remember  my   grip   on   the   chain-linked   swing,   the   continual   hard
click   of   metal    rings   suspending    me    in    midair   before   snatching,
gripping   the   back   of   my  collar  like  my  mother   in   a   grocery  store
parking  lot  when  I’d  wandered  too  far  from  her  side,  how  every time
I  jumped  from  that  swing,  I  didn’t  fear wind’s gentle  scooping  hands
playing  catcher’s  mitt  to  my  bones,  I  knew  I could  land anything,  my
ass  horizontal  to  the  top  support  beam,  the   thumping   post   rhythm
of  my  accelerated  heartbeat  and  maybe  I  was  thinking  about  the time
me  and  the  kid  from  4  houses   down   hid   under  the  tongue   of   the
slide,  how  he   unbuckled   the  small   knot  of  his  pants,  and  curious, I
followed   like  a  lost  stray,  how  the  pulling  of  my  skin   had   the  same
howl   as   the   swing’s   mighty   bellow,   I   must    have    been    thinking
about  the touching  and how  it  felt so                            safe,
him  in  my  hands,   how  I   find  myself  still  grasping  for  something  to
catch  me  when  I’m  falling  and  it’s  funny,  I’m  sure  I  wasn’t  thinking
about  any of that,  just how I could  stick  this  landing  like  a  used  piece
of  gum  hugging  the  bottom  of   my   shoe   and   surely  I  thought,  I’ve
done  this   before,   so   it   must   be                                safe.                     But
there  was  no  boy  there  to  fall  into.

A Duplex for the boy with the Cool Blue Truck in Pennsylvania

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I am terrified of the backroads hanging off Pennsylvania.
A boy asks me to meet him in the dark alley of a country woods.

               The boy asks me to ravage him on the creaking off-trail road,
               carve my name in him and with that I’d stay forever.

Carve my skin with his and become a glass jar for now.
I share my location with my best friend of where to find me.

               I share my body with a boy and only my best friend knows
               where I hide when my skin is unlatching at the armpits and ankles.

Where I hide all bodies blooming in the swirl of my gut.
But his palms requested me, the small bleeding prize he can hold

               in his hands. A trophy bleeding out always at his request.
               And sure, I am afraid this man in my cell is a murderer

or that this white man might be racist and I am unknowing.
I am terrified of being found hanging off the Pennsylvania backroads.

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Art by Meridith McNeal