Monday, April 5, 2010

7.30 title 9

we called her spider legs
she was pippi longstockings
her nickname was chucks
on a good day, we called her flow
"puma!" was our shout, her battle cry
we forgot her given name

we were scissor sisters
cutting patterns in the floor
getting our elbows into it
skidding, rambling
putting our shoulders to this task
the launch, the flight
the spin around the rim

we were the trees growing up from pine boards
back to life
feeling the braille of the ball's skin
the blackened ridges
knew the arcs of geometry
point positions
the sometimes randomness
missed foul
bounce off the glass
preposterous hand pushing it into the net
or the feel of it not going in
the second it left you

so much of life
repeats that feeling of knowing loss
the second a ball leaves you

our sneakers
squeak the same for us
as for them
we play by the same
but have more to jump through

you won't see us on big three network
we are an afterthought
an anti-climax
because we don't get the big contracts
and the sleazy tabloid
dramas of conspicuous consumption
they get int the afterworld

you remember "swoops"
maybe some others
or the cuteness of little girls
thinking they're badasses for a minute

we become teams of ghosts
amputated from our game
even after championship and nine titles

at least we keep
our nicknames
and our gamefaces
some of us always carry them
around our necks
or just behind our make-up
at all times.

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