David II

David II

“…but now he was under a sheet

anonymous as God, the big boys crying,

spitting words, and we stunned

like intellectuals…” (Dennis Cooper—‘After School, Street Football, Eighth Grade’)

Deluge soaks the rubber, death-spirals a drainless court,

but the forward, David, died last summer. We see.

They move around him, their disappeared world—

the orbit, gravity, sneakers, space debris.

Remove the pull and nothing makes sense

to us, lowly slaves, bleacher-dwellers.

Let the boys rattle around their shuttle—

touching us from afar, that earthly, eerie glow.

We watch in horror but it’s the kind of horror

you can mistake for something else, like laughter.

Last picked, losers. The boy next to me gapes

with an ectopic gaze, adores our lords and masters.

Blitzkrieg of exceptionalism, they collide—

clotting blood cells, cars in spasms of traffic.

The climax of the game burns in us. We see

their muscles gorged like Gods, Apollo graphic.

But that lonely star flatlines, the heart trembles

like that boy’s bottom lip, his arm stabbed

into my gut, squeezing, IV drip

of his face: that victory David would’ve had.

He stepped on a shard of nail—

what kind of a death is that? Stupid misdirection

of a young life. A pastiche of it, really.

We see it. The sweat of puddles, the clouds of infection.

Aborted delay. We don’t count scores

but it’s nearing a hundred. Same shuttle fails

at the meeting of greys and blues, asphyxiated lover.

David’s brother responds with a snivel, a sob, a wail.

Ribbons of smoke cascade, pom-poms

and nonchalant glitter of trophies, gold-hearted.

Midcourt line and three-point line and centre line

flesh a map, always

leading back

to where

he started.

(This was written in my first year CW class :3)