He stands in the batter’s box                             the boy was born quickly

Digs in with his cleats                                        eighteen years ago

Solid arms hold the wooden bat                        wrinkled, head-heavy baby

Swings the bat in strong orbits                          I cradle this moon-shaped boy

Muscles taut, eyes determined                         the honeyed, new skin

His bare hands twist the barrel                         fists clench as he stares quietly

Square wrists rise over his shoulder                my lips press to his downy head

The body in fluid motion                                   he turns eager in his search

The bat smacks the ball                                   hungry mouth to my breast

Reaching, lunging, running                              waves that empty and fill

He tears down the line                                     so far from home