Girls know this boy’s reputation.
He’s hung up on baseball, even football.
Other boys say he should turn out
before he graduates, and so he does.
His mother isn’t the only female
who will worry he may turn up injured
each time he leaves the farm to go play ball.
Irene with her Castenada-deep skin,
the warm cleft between her legs, the sweet lips
next to the dark mole on one cheek she wears
like a queen who chose him to be her king . . .
In the stands on her feet, she holds both hands
to silence the crowd’s roar as her eyes see
him hurtle into the secondary
and run the man with the ball to the ground.
She promises to herself to give him
her body in the dark after the lights
go out, when the turf feels stained with the blood
and sweat that could be his or any young
hero’s. He knows he is only Irene’s.
(15 June 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander