I toss the green ball in the air
with my left hand
raise the racket behind my head
with the right
elbow bent like a catapult
ready to spring
the ball begins to descend
I release the coil of my arm
and serve across the net
into the shadows
I wait for the return
silence
I toss another ball into the air
retract the racket
and launch another serve
nothing
maybe I have the wrong sport
I palm a white ball with my left hand
my right, loose in a fist, bumps it
from beneath, fires the shot
over a higher, larger net
again into the darkness
my legs wide, knees bent
a stance ready for a return
still nothing
I try everything to start a rally
to engage in a volley
but they do not hear
the sound of the ball coming
they are too preoccupied
with fumbling in the dark
looking for a place to stand
to see that my ball is filled
with light, that my voice
is their salvation
*
[This poem took a turn that surprised me. I started thinking the poem was about A but then it turned out to be about B, something completely out of left field. I love when that happens. And for the record, I'm not a religious person but I think the season of Lent and Easter has me occupied with Christian figures, like Jesus and Mary (see Poem #8).]
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