Jacknife/2

Each day, I am apprenticed to the boy

I want to be.

He rifles the ball

and I catch it

or I fumble.

His red head ducks and weaves,

thinking, end zone.

I tag him

or I don’t.

He swaggers

no matter what.

With the deftness

of a novice

I’ve learned the language

that drives us

toward that hallowed

and to no mind

imaginary

goal line.

Fuck! is the sound of

the ball,

well-kicked, or a pass,

snagged

out of the achingly fresh

October air.

The boy I want to be

is the one who slams me

into the chain-link fence

(nascent breasts

like crushed buds)

because I won’t

stay on the sidelines,

cheering,

or skip rope and sing

with the other girls

in the lee of the school.