Bird's-eye by Alison Blake

Picture me six feet up,
feet swinging as I peered down, jeering
and praying you’d climb the tree trunk I clutched.
I’m sorry for hopping beyond the hopscotch
we etched in chalk on the driveway,
for standing five inches taller than you—
just tall enough to hoist myself up
over that branch and holler down.
The oak had always towered over the front yard,
but just then it beckoned me,
and I hadn’t scraped my knee in at least a week.
It was time for a new band-aid,
for a view over the neighbors’ roof
and through the leaves before they fell,
but I’m still sorry.
Once I’d pressed my cheeks against the bark
and found the last foothold,
as close to the sky as I’d ever been,
I just wished you were there,
giggling with me.
So I taunted and peered down at you
when I could’ve been more than six feet up.