The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2006

Softball Sestina

–        for SMLZ, and The Purple Power

Arranged in the outfield like points of a star
the girls are ready – elbow wrist glove – reach
for it, coming fast, the hard yellow ball
rips over the space where the shortstop, perched in the dirt,
has missed, it falls behind another surprised daughter,
rolling through such soft grass, propelled by the cheers

from the hitting team. Everybody stomps and cheers
except the runner, breathing hard, a celebrity star
right now. Next time it could be your daughter
tossing her bat, pounding dust, legs a blur as she reaches
the base, heavy white jewel in red dirt.
Why can’t it all be as easy as softball –

perfect hand-sized globe under her control, the ball
asks nothing, and when it’s not her turn, her cheers
are all that is required. She twirls her fingers in the dirt,
waiting, tracing, recognizing shapes – sun moon star –
at her feet, Jupiter, scraped in the sand within her reach.
Can you explain to your sons and daughters

why the world’s infinity of cousins, cats, and daughters
spins but won’t fall off, or the physics of their hurtling balls –
like 6 new moons no longer hidden, suddenly we reach
into the universe – oh, look, the startled crowd is cheering
again, an unexpected fly pops up, glittering wildly in the star-
light from our familiar hydrogen fire, personal as dirt.

But I’m still wondering about Jupiter. How much dirt
from 58 moons drifts through the void, sprinkles my daughter
and her friends while they are occupied, checking next week’s starting
lineup – the game is over, already gone, toss the winning ball
into the black gear sack, reward the losing team with rhyming cheers
and fruity Starbursts in each palm slap. These girls reach      

out their grubby hands, filled with sweat and candy, we reach
for our water bottles, shoulder their bats. Soon the scuffed dirt
will lie silently beside the lined grass, good cheer
moves on. I tell my story of new moons to un-listening daughters,
and I un-listen as they re-live – swing crack drop run – the exhausted ball
travels home buried in the trunk. No one thinks to thank the star.

This game is up; I can’t reach my galaxy-expanding daughter
much of the time. Dirt under her fingernails stays there. Her ball
accompanies her where I cannot. I cheer myself, sit back and watch her star.

Jennifer Swanton Brown