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
