No one can blame him for wanting
            to play for the Boston Celtics. I myself 

would have played for the Boston Celtics 
           had I grown up a little differently 

and a little taller. Forgive me,
            for my father has taught me

that Boston sports teams cannot lose.
            That they are touched 

by a special god. One who protects 
            the strong, the fast, and the particularly

lanky--and ferries them to banners hanging 
            from rafters and giant silver cups 

from which grown men drink celebratory beer. 
            The beer

does not flow freely in Utah, where Hayward 
            spent seven seasons and ignited a hairstyle 

revolution. Not even career-highs or a stint in the All-Star game or 
            seas of dads donning the pompadour fade could keep 

him from leaving the mountains. No one can blame him 
            for wanting to play for the winningest team in the league. 

Every Mormon in the valley was furious. 
            Even the prophet himself was shaking, pausing 

from prayer momentarily to curse out Hayward
            in that green jersey. 

And it’s as if every Mormon in the valley 
            spoke directly to God just moments before 

his first season opener. Those of us here, between the temple 
            and the base of the ski slopes, 

had seen his veneer begin 
            to crack. A stumble. A fractured finger. 

But nothing like this. Like putting a shoe on the wrong way or 
            twisting at the knee as some sort of vaudevillian joke. 

Some speculated that he may have been struck 
            by God. That the collective resentful energy 

of the most pious basketball fans in the country
            was able to fracture a tibia and dislocate an ankle

faster than it takes to offer sacrament on Sunday morning.
            Maybe to be consoled by LeBron--a god

in his own right--would take away a tiny bit of the sting 
            of sitting on the bench for the rest of the season.

What can I say about leaving. 
            And about leaving something good 

for something better. What can I say about punishment 
            for wanting.

No one can blame him for wanting.

Danielle Susi is the author of the chapbook The Month in Which We Are Born (dancing girl press, 2015). Her writing has appeared in Knee-Jerk Magazine, Hobart, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. Her full-length manuscript A River Always Ends at a Mouth, has been selected as a semi-finalist for both the Lexi Rudnitsky First Book Prize at Persea Books and the Hudson Prize at Black Lawrence Press. She received her MFA in writing from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She currently lives and works in Utah. Find her online at daniellesusi.com