She held me high on the flat upturned palm
of her left hand, her straight arm at ten-till,
her right eye squinched between cheek
and brow like a huntress drawing her bow,
her right arm cocked back behind her ear
taking aim at my heart, a volleyball, a round
moon she could pound from orbit toward
God only knows where, at any of six balled fists
or worse, even, to the sandy ground, the mud,
a way for her to score another point, to win again.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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