A prison is the only place that’s a prison.
Maybe your brain is a beehive—or, better:
an ants nest? A spin class?
The sand stuck in an hourglass? Your brain is like
stop it. So you practice driving with your knees,
you get all the way out to the complex of Little
League fields,
you get chicken fingers with four kinds of mustard—
spicy, whole grain, Dijon, yellow—
you walk from field to field, you watch yourself
play every position, you circle each identical game,
each predictable outcome. On one field you catch.
On one field you pitch. You are center field. You are
left.
Sometimes you have steady hands and French braids.
Sometimes you slide too hard into second on purpose.
It feels as good to get the bloody knee as it does to
kick yourself in the shin.
You wait for the bottom of the ninth to lay your
blanket out in the sun.
Admit it, Sasha, the sun helps. Today,
the red team hits the home run. Red floods every
field.
A wasp lands on your thigh. You know this feeling.
2020
Regular
Contemporary
2023
Body & Body Image
Mental Health
Music & Sports
Anaphora
a figure of speech in which words repeat at the beginning of successive clauses, phrases, or sentences
Caesura
a break between words within a metrical foot
Metaphor
a comparison between two unrelated things through a shared characteristic