I’m practiced at standing behind the yellow line looking disinterested, who cares, stupid game. Suzanne begs pick me pick me with her boxy high-up-to-her-ear Frankenstein shoulders, V eyebrows, worried worried eyes. we must be sad to see, like living chalk outlines. but I don’t care. Ms Simms tells Carla she has to choose me or Suzanne, like, rake up the last leaf, sweep the smattered dirt into the dustpan, go on, must must you must, and Carla points her red-applique-nail pinkie at me, not even a real finger, I get the last on the hand, the tagalong, the finger that basically rides for free, no room in the jeans pocket it hangs alone, that finger, that player, me, though I’m a better free-thrower than these jerks, duck faster under their floral-scent anti-perspirant pits, slide between them with their teacup breasts like DPW detour cones, my heavy hips untoppleable I am unstoppable, and a better dribbler and passer than me is Suzanne, together we rock, in social studies we spelled “cooperative” with that double dot thing on the “ö,” looks Swedish, diaeresis, sounds like a long-lasting symptom of the clap, avoid diaeresis, use the damn condom, the hour almost over, still Carla hasn’t put me on the court, rules are each of us plays once a class, we need to for the grade
Click here to read Denise Bergman on the origin of the poem.
Image by luthfi alfarizi on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
Lovely, lovely poem, Denise!