Shortstop

I was four foot, one 
caterpillar. Black hair
all tussle & God-talk. 
Slim prayers pop-flying 
from this gone bad fruit
for mouth. I stayed low.
Played king to the crickets. 
I was salt lick. Spoonfed. 
Double plays on my daddy’s 
call, I hurled his good name
to second, first, third—
offroad, the wrong way. 
Home plate just in time 
to skip Wednesday 
night. Instead: eating 
the ribeye & fudge supper
my mother would serve 
on china. Diamond 
dust kicked up in the pixie 
light. I wanted fire-
working across our American 
skies. I was young 
enough. I still believed 
in war. Infield, out—
didn’t know which team 
was mine, so I looked 
to the bleachers, like this 
one, many-eyed bleacher 
-monster. Dug my britches
into fescue. Hot dirt. 
Whitewashed. Split shinned 
like salvation on a wishbone. 
Like something paid for 
with a strong arm & a cracking—
killer’s eye on the runner. 
Somehow, I’m still 
the only thing standing 
between myself & losing it.