A journal of narrative writing.

I want to reach into my own biography and shake loose the sun until those faces, sipping light come back to me again–summer of childhood glow carved into me by the broad shoulders of tomboys, their fifth grade musculature dragging whole notes from the surface of reflective gym floors and lilting this music into the flinch of a net, the ball dropping to this page in a blur of dribbles I spent transcribing in my history of hugging sidelines and living the loner to text, taking gym class as metaphor. For every obvious ground ball I missed was my shortstop, fielding the flight of pivot and reflex and poetry on the ridge of making me human as she is, while defining the space I blunder through in her sharp angles breaching beyond the girl I was and into the place I want to meet her. But I can't. Three years later, she starts over in a place without music and gives the boy in her to the boy. But I can't. Ten years later, there are chapels full of wedding pews and somewhere, I am still eleven, waiting out the long afternoon on lonely benches, missing fly balls in right field and waiting for her to come back.