Lacing

Tacey M. Atsitty


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VII.

Sometimes I kneel down to play a game

from my childhood. Only then can I feel

grains of gravel, each pebble digs in so real.

Sometimes I act as though I am the same,

a young girl, rope in hand, at the tetherball game:

I blare out rule after rule and feel them peal

within me, as though I’m chanting to be healed

from some minor infraction. It’s lame,

to say the least, to be kneeling alone

 

with socks full of holes—so he came to play.

From the lining of his vest, he took out jacks

and a small rubber ball. “You’re not here alone,”

he said before throwing his with mine. “Let’s play

until the sky breaks from the throwing of our jacks.”