by mike swanberg
Peeling clementines
this is the only time I put
My historically ungentle hands to real work
The short story of the peel unfolding
Thumbnail pressed through soft yielding skin
Unwrapped now, like a present
From your grandparents.
Gently, infront of them, to show
You are not a creature of such stark want,
Though you want.
Then this breaking of the fruit
Into 12 equal parts and the eating
Of them all slowly
The bysight judging of which slice
To leave for last.
Sometimes the sweetest girls
Have a hard time smiling
Sometimes even a lumbering ox
Stops his chewing to write.
------------------
Practice
Nothing to say for my terrible form
As a middle hitter, point guard, or offensive lineman.
And There I am squatting in the crab grass
someone telling me later, that I crouch down
Like a fucking Marshallese, trying to hurt me,
To taunt me into good habits
But I am the unperfect spiral wavering through
A late November pick up game
The fastball to 1st caught in an ungloved hand
And dropped just as suddenly.
My shriek of pain blending with the cries
Of kids practicing perfect front flips
Off the highdive
a block away
Their naked feet climbing those slick steps
Shouldertops glowing brightly in the sun
They take one step, maybe two and then
End over end holding nothing,
They make themselves learn.
