| 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. |