Newton's Cradle

by Mary Crockett Hill

I was once a child on a trampoline
with my friend Mary
and me also Mary—
we two like the persistent
knock and sway
of that metal-balls motion toy
that rich men keep idle
on their desks.  We were
so glad for our long girl legs,
bruised knee-caps, mane-ish hair,
for the all of us that sprung
and jounced and almost flew
from the taut black canvas
below.  So glad
that no one had yet
kissed us, much less
fingered, much less photographed
naked.  We were
anything but still, and the air
was not moving
but seemed to be moving
because we shot through it so fast.