at the gates of Gettysburg.

 

 

like that man who sings beautiful arias,

but blind

I was trying to not think

of the shooting pain in my

hand.

 

The same hand that made a basketball

basket in the 10th grade.   The

purest victory known

to mankind.

 

Haven't attempted one

since then. Stopped with

the victory of completion. That

night

 

I couldn't sleep. Stayed awake thinking

of the many  possibilities. What if I rode the

shoulders of teammates,

 

tore my jersey off my skin and bones

and gave it to the loveliest girl?

 

Just what if?

 

 

 

 

 

 

h.dana.rushin

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

I don't know if it was a universal thing , but did you ever leave the gym without making your final shot? Nothing to do with the piece, I suppose, just a curiosity on my part.

It's interesting that this poem is sited at Gettysburg, which was both a turning point and the subject of any number of what-ifs of its own, and it's an interesting contrast between "the victory of completion" and the notion of "victory" at Gettysburg, which was neither complete nor final. It's also quite curious that "completion" comes after (perhaps is somewhat secondary?) to the here-and-now pain in the shooting hand.

I'm dancing around a whole bunch of things here, and I suspect I'm missing the big picture. You know, when Doug Moe played in the ABA back in the 60s, he used to switch to shooting jumpers with his left hand in the middle of games now and then. Something to consider.