By Keaton K. Yee
The game is surprisingly red,
like sunrise, fallen leaves, fire ants.
Passes aren’t pigskins but comets or shooting
stars. Every spiral not deflected is deemed
a success. The players have obsessions:
energy drinks, tape, getting a faster jump
on the snap. When tackling starts,
sunlight glitters with the electricity
of splashing water. Yes, peel me. Wrap my skin
into an oblong ball and spiral me deep
into the blue sky till I’m an eagle
making a kamikaze dive
into the long arms of the fastest player
sprinting away from the fray. Let him kick
me high, flopping end-over-end
into the loud garden of tubby jumping beans.
