Today my sunburned arms remind me—
couldn’t move for long, dusty hours
with other baseball moms on the field.

How we watched you, my girl, posed, poised,
at eleven, stepping forward to destroy— seeing
a wreath of flowers around your head, you carried

Water in a dish. Noon lasts for hours. The breeze
eludes us, coaches suck ice, scream, “Pay attention!
Don’t hit unless it’s good.”

We pray you’ll end the calm. You do not strike out.
Your teammates cry, “Good eye, good eye!” A moment
before you’d skipped to the plate— a careless maiden
trailing your wilted wooden bouquet

A loose, lopsided figure eight. Willingly,
you had come to meet this end, to stain the
altar with your dreams and idleness.

“Swing hard and fast, if it’s good.”
Lean over, push your bottom out, tap
wood to earth, focus out attention all to hide
your girl-throat from the curve.

Then the sound clean hollow. You hit, run safe.
They cheer. Sinking to know I’ve brought you
trusting here to this Good Greek light.

Yellow cap back— your smile shatters darkness,
green eyes seek mine shielded— you guess in an instant.
You’ll forgive me — gladly refuse to hold me

responsible for even this latest little death.