After David Hernandez’s “Lisa”
The back of my hand knows the scar
on your knee like I know the back of my hand,
who’s traced and kneaded and sanded it
without ever smoothing it out completely.
I can hear the scream of the field,
the drama of a live ball, cleats chugging,
scratch of body against painted dirt,
and the base that didn’t break away;
ligaments wriggling loose like innards
of a busted home run ball. Adrenaline
carries you to your feet before you realize
the leg won’t hold. Again, bodydirtscrape.
This is the part I don’t like, and why I’ve
kissed the raised earth of it so – I’m
nowhere to be found, somewhere even
younger and more aloof and helpless.
I want to be the base that gives, lets you slide.
I want to be the lightning wingspan calling safe!
I want to wave you home, crowd the plate,
collide with you, leave a dust storm in our wake.