Copyright is held by the author.
Will it be a rip, or a slip —
the sound of two identities untwining?
How will it go on?
This ivy, un-affixed,
without its mother mortar to mould to?
does it descend to sediment
whose scent of independence
soils its evergreen gloss?
No, says the girl,
un-tethered in the yard,
on the set of swings she uses to smuggle the sky in.
She knows its rustle,
and the rancor of its reach.
And so she turns her tears to the tree,
to the sturdy structure,
to which it will creep to, climb up, and claim
as its own.