I threw a curve-bale into your baseball metaphor, diverted paradise by the dashboard lights before you could slide yawing-screen-door- apple-pie home, sunburnt child, for I was my own Pandemonium in the sticky backseat, un-fuck-up-able and burning bright at the rest stop of the night, a fearsome to mortal hand or eye. I beaned you with an aghast-ball in the midst of your spring refulgence, as you allocated yourself along crisp, white lines dividing a forthright field, magnanimous toward bomb pops and toddlers and lawn chairs, guileless golden retrievers un-lethally charging fleet squirrels, which I flipped inside-out with my stories of a childhood scavenging roadkill to bring back to an old board where I watched the maggots eat it. I know what a body entails, what muscular gnarls and slick gloves your hand would trouble should you try to steal your way onto the scoreboard. Pay attention, tiger. No deftness nor daring shall lure me back to that Eden I left of my own, free will, with a mouthful of something fresh and wrong.
Owen Lubozynski is a freelance writer and editor living in the Twin Cities. Copy is her bread and butter; poetry is her jam.