In the middle of life's road, which I notice
keeps getting wider,
he asks me to show him a slider.
Bankrupt, filled with rage, and now caught
on the phone with a merciful woman who isn't his mother,
I slam the phone down,
order him to the back yard,
and pitch. Don't push off, separate,
because it's how you separate yourself from the mound,
it's all in the follow-through.
I come straight over the top.
They break smoothly, cleanly,
as I broke them off once, like knives outlining my victims.
He tries, is all legs and arms. His hands
half the span of mine, sneaks untied,
he's a present coming unwrapped. No,
you're not coming all the way through.
You need to fall through your body
as if it weren't there. You need to plunge
down the steps your legs and back make
and then the ball will break
and fall off the end of the world
no matter what and after that
your body can burst into flames
for all I care and I come through
and the ball cracks his glove, knocks it off.
He picks up my hand, turns my fingers,
touches my face, horrified.
He says he wants me to show him again
how to fall through your body
and burst into flames.