Poem 20, June 20
Pink Gown
Before daylight
two days in a row,
I dreamed of you
& your pink gown.
Yesterday, I mowed brown
grass before the dew
dried off so
as not to negatively excite
you & it rained last night.
From the kitchen window,
I watched a robin accrue
eight worms it found
in one spot. Your pink gown
was all my thoughts turned to
in that moment. How slow
it glides down your body; how tight
it would fit this poem.
The world meets In Winnipeg, Edmonton, Ottawa, Moncton, Vancouver, and Montreal.
To advance to the round of 16, players resort to whatever works.
Wendy Acosta plays with a facemask, openings only for her eyes.
Each team has its own customs.
The Thai players bow to their coaches with palms together as they come off the field.
The Nigerian coach kisses the turf before a game.
A victorious Japanese team makes a curtain call to the stands.
Some gestures are international: a fouled opponent pulls her target off the ground
and gives her a fist bump.
Television zooms in on the drama:
The gracious 26-year-old woman’s coach from Ecuador,
a losing coach’s refusal to shake hands,
and the agony of the Spanish and ecstasy of the Koreans.
You’ve left a hole in the world as I know it.
I find myself with Gore beating Bush,
with Dewey in fact defeating Truman.
What you’ve done is provide final proof
that we are not alone in the only universe,
by creating a parallel one without you.
Absenting yourself from future history,
you’ve left Germany and Japan victorious
over both the United and Confederate States.
We’ll never stand in wonder on lunar soil,
never sail for the Indies and discover more.
You can forget about our unborn children.
