If his arms didn’t hang
like dead eels in oversized
little league sleeves
dangling from shoulders
compressed by the weight of
the whole town’s name on his back
then my chest wouldn’t hurt
as I shiver in raw
spring season
braced against wind
like a fisherman’s rasp
scaling my skin,
a woman in sandals,
praying for an out, already, a final
out.
He’s light on his feet
could run if ever
he hit a ball
could throw if ever
he stopped one in the air.
Everybody knows right field’s
the Siberian slot—not even
a lefthanded nine year old
bats it to there.
Two fathers next to me
smoke and grin and cheer—
the score is 26 to 23—
27 now—I think we’re ahead
watching four or five
crack-run-fumble-bases-loaded innings.
Oh, son, wave your chilblained hands,
peel off that duckbill and run—
forgive us and come
with your Dad to his lab, to me in my studio
between us there wasn’t a single
athletic gene to send
sliding into your blood’s home base.
This poem first appeared in the Jewish Women’s Literary Annual.
Used here with the author’s permission.
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