I play with an old boyfriend, to tease you out.
In white shorts that you’ve never seen before.
You storm—wind, panic in the tree.
Rattling like the genius
like the jealous man.
Making it impossible to hit.
So nothing clears the net.
An inside joke, my comingback love:
He can’t return, but you can?
After an hour, the court is swept, and reassumes
the waiting face of the bereft. But you—
the sky turns blue with your held breath.
|"Séance at Tennis" is reprinted from Honey and Junk by Dana Goodyear. Copyright © 2005 by Dana Goodyear. With permission of the publisher, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.|