Kick-ball is a gamble,
so much to set you off:
glare of sun, noise,
the way you might take
being out too personally,
not to mention
that you have yet
to kick a ball.
I imagine you lost between bases,
or somehow catching a pass
just to run the wrong way.
So I watch in amazement
as you ask to pitch,
step to the mound,
squat, the kick ball
an egg
between skinny legs.
You send the ball straight for the plate,
without a bounce, nary a wobble,
lean back,
hands on your waist
as though you expected as much.
No one else here has any idea
how far you have come
but from here in the field
I spy the occupational therapist
molding your hands to the ball,
catch our physical therapist
adjusting your stance,
hear the speech pathologist
cheering from the stands.
I nod to our pediatrician, a calm,
but attentive referee,
the whole afternoon rolling out
perfectly conceived,
the sun and sky
brilliant visual cues
lighting you
there in the center
setting us all
into play.
What It Takes
Breech Birth, 1959
A Few Words For January
Goodbye to Room 1116
Staying In
The Balance Tipped
What Continues on Sundays
After Your Death