Weaving Down the Court
A night to remember,
not cliché but numinous,
wild and unpredictable . . .
neither quite game nor “reality”:
David by her side, cell phone carrying
flies down court to fulfill his mission.
streaming like tears on the sandy horizon.
A three-pointer, a two;
pains getting closer together as
March madness invades the Garden,
while in the desert, men
drop from the sky, not
gently from the silk
folds of the wombs of women,
but torn by helicopter blades,
shouting, “God is on our side,
God is on our side.”
No surprise then that romance
begged from background music,
becomes so charming it is discordant,
slides into a spirit band salute,
a tin drum cavalcade
beating out the rhythm of nine months labor:
Amani, Ella, Ibrahim, Yusef, Davis, Parker . . .
A convergence of cries, born of a miracle of precision,
luminous like a clock, numbers mounting in crazed dedication
to causes invented in bushes, or dark caverns of ego,
yet each cry a call, each call a reminder:
This is not a staging.
This is the real thing.
This will be death or birth.
night of the