Seventh-Inning Stretch
Horn-rimmed glasses and pants pressed
free of creases. My arms
around your middle, chin
cradled by your shoulder. I am too fond of
you. Our image in the mirror. My
nudity. How you spit. That frisson
of control. And
Don’t you dare stain my pants. I’d
crease myself down the middle if you
wanted. Wear myself inside out. You’re late
for work, but I kiss you; consider
cigarettes. I’ve never smoked in my life. Gin
my vice, though you drink vermouth
to honor your dad. I dance with myself and
hope you’re as fond of me.
There are many mirrors, and I’m only in my
underwear. I’m too thin, too flabby, too
caught up in our dishwater. Because it’s
ours. Our apartment one floor above the
Polish man who sells vacuums. Spring has
come to Earth with its light. Flowers and
loose ties. I don’t know the first thing
about baseball.
Home Run
Peanut dust and bent
scorecards. Pencils worn to
nubs. You lean forward,
expectant.
And who wears a dress shirt
to a baseball game? Linen chinos.
God. My dad would die first. But
I love it. How the blue of the sky
reflects in your eyes. The crack
of the bat like a dream landing
on the upper deck. I lean
into you. You talk about RBIs and
batting averages. Shifts and the pitch
clock. I eat a hotdog. Nod. Make sure
my mustard falls away from you, onto
my jeans. And that is what love is, I
think: the windup, the pitch, the
swing and every lingering moment
of flight.
Spring Ball
You’re watching the Yankees on
TV, and You do remember my brother
is a diehard Mets fan, right? You
laugh and pull me onto the couch. I pretend
I’m aggrieved: Traitor! It’s April, raining
outside, and our lasagna is in the oven. Mom’s
recipe. No béchamel, but mozzarella.
Crushed meatballs between the layers. The scent
brings me home. Nostalgia, like how
you used to take the train from Connecticut to see
the Yankees with your dad before
the stroke. The two of you smiling at a disposable
camera. The grainy photos we still keep
in a shoebox labeled < 1999. Your tiny face
unknots my heart. You smile like
he smiled. The oven timer dings.
I don’t want
to move from your side. Though the whole
apartment smells of tomatoes.
I kiss your cheek, relish
the rough stubble beneath my lips, and the Yankees
bring in a run. What my brother doesn’t know
won’t hurt him.
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