Legs wobble like noodles;
The ice is unkind --
It flies up to meet me
And whacks my behind.
A week on the pond
And I'm covered with welts.
My bruised body yearns
For the day the ice melts.
Because I've struck out each at bat,
Mom offered me a deal:
"Just get a hit and you can have
Some spinach with your meal."
For spinach I'll do anything,
Like even get a hit.
My favorite food, I just can never
Get enough of it.
Mom bakes me nasty things like pies
And pizzas. Chocolate cake.
She fries up chicken, buys ice cream,
And grills some T-bone steak.
With all that awful-tasting food
Our meals aren't much fun.
But now, for spinach -- just you watch!
I'll hit a long home run!
Before my dad left
he taught me how
to hold my bat
away from my body
when I swing
and how to let the ball
spin off my fingertips
when I throw
and how to oil my glove
and wrap string aroung it
with a ball inside
so when I sleep
the pocket will remember
the ball just as clearly
as I remember
my dad's face.
a Girl As My Opponent
In My First and Only
School Wrestling Match
she pinned me flat against the mat.
and that was that.
As time clicks down,
I crouch on coiled legs,
wait for the corner kick,
count opponent's sweaty heads
ready to bang their brains
into a checkered ball,
hoping to make a dent
in the solid wall of our 2-0 lead.
I spring like a leopard,
claw autumn's misty air,
clutch the damp ball,
clench it in cold hands,
skip three steps on soggy ground,
swing my leg into the ball's flight
and take a tasty bite
of victory's sweet fruit.
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