Served

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.

Advertisements

About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s