Things change. Let’s just start there.
Never more evident
than the day you lunged
for the yellow pickleball bouncing away
(in your head a magnificent shot) and hit
ITS NOT HOW U BOWL, ITS HOW U ROLL, or so
says the sign outside the of the tiger bowl in madrid,
iowa. after plaza lanes caught fire and burned everything,
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Backfield set,
5 wide.
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What the viewer sees in Munch’s woodcut The Trial By Fire:
in the wrinkles of her dress,
between the lines.
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I practice my poses in five-inch clear plastic heels. My parts: held on, held up with rhinestone joists. Glued on. Bulletproofed. My flaws are in hiding—behind a shirred hypotenuse bedazzled. Something borrowed from Helen of Troy—bluer than the eyes of men—who’d kill for me.
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because it’s the gold standard, what all athletes use, but doc’s words only echo in my mind as mom and i look at the x-ray of my shredded acl ligament torn on two ends like frayed sidewall string. i still taste wet turf pellets from when i collapsed,
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