My father taught me to play defense.
Like watching men on the street,
I map the distance to keep.
I saw the ball coming down the field
before it left the striker’s cleats,
like watching men on the street.
A chest will lean right to move left.
Track the body not the feet;
I map the distance to keep.
At half-time we ate orange slices,
tore riblets of fruit with our teeth—
like watching men on the street.
My father whispered: put your body
between the striker and the goalie.
I map the distance to keep.
He stormed the field in his head
as the silver sphere flew into the corner.
Like watching men on the street:
goalie alone at the net, post unfriendly,
and the net taking its fish, fresh scales in its fist.
I map the distance to keep.
Once at the beach, too far into the tide,
I couldn’t read the wave’s curled undertow,
like watching men on the street.
Once the silver dance of studs dazzled me
away. As if vigilance could hold back a wave,
like watching men on the street.
I map the distance to keep.
