Idiolexicon: 6/28/2007


Amanda Chiado

First Game

          Which head will be bruised?

          Hark-kicked, no handed.

          A cocky one spits.
          This isn’t real grass.

          Almost never have I seen
          such arguing limbs.



George lifts up his jersey to reveal
a scratched up, throbbing red

belly, like a soft, round mistake.
I fell asleep at the wheel,

climbed up a mountainside
and through poison oak.




          No shin guards, disagreeing feet.

          Which side will be taken
          from behind?

          I’ve been a noise.

          The red team
          scores: Oxygen.

          It thumps around.
          They fight for it.


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