Swing.

Israeli, Henry

    Once you pushed your daughter on this swing. Then
   she learned to push herself. Then the urge to swing
   diminished--you both stopped pushing.
   Now when you push the swing, emptiness
   pushes back. The child she once was, a ghost child.
   Your own childhood, a ghost childhood.
   Your mother never pushed a swing. It wasn't her style
   to push a child in any way. With every blast
   of radiation therapy, she retreated more deeply into
   the ghost of herself. Once childhood is shed,
   a long slow skinning that aches the way a phantom limb aches,
   it can drive you to lunacy, the echo of colors
   bleeding out to gray. This swing swings,
   pushed by no one. Laughter brined
   in autumn's breeze stopped years ago
   although it took you this long to know.