Gabrielle

SHE stands, lazily waiting for the ball.
Relaxed in slump-shouldered boredom,
SHE carries the hockey stick
As if it weighs too much.
SHE wills HER defender into a sense of
Superiority and is quickly discounted and labeled as
Another below-average-walk-on-girlie-girl,
Another nobody-forced-to-play-a-sport,
Another lead-footed-warm-body.
The ball comes.
The opponent moves easily, never expecting much,
SHE waits one last moment to verify HER
Inferiority in HER defender’s eyes.
Then SHE moves.
All these things happen at once;
The stick comes down; the legs are charged; the body
Moves in a blur at an impossible angle toward the ball.
The defender cannot accept the speed of it all.
When it is too late, the opponent
Lunges and misses both the ball and the action.
SHE lengthens HER stride with
The ball-on-the-end-of-HER-stick.
The goalie comes out and SHE slows for one moment.
The goalie freezes,
SHE explodes in a cloud of grass, cleats and dirt.
The ball always makes the same hollow, wooden
Clunk when it hits the back of the goal.

by Mark McGinn

Other poems of MCGINN (5)

Comments (1)

Very intersting, Mark. Felt like I was there.