The Boy and His Ball

The boy is bending down to hold the laces

tight between his index finger and his thumb.

Practices somersaulting the strings between

one another, his conductor’s baton tossing

revolutions through the air.

Over                    under

through                 pull.

Over                    under

through                 pull.

Now, he lets the shoestring halos fall

on either side.

The cleats, when he runs,

dig themselves into the endless earth.

The soil spits upwards, black

streaks airborne

cascading into the jubilant wake

of the child.

His feet flourish around the ball, learning

the orbit of taut leather, the texture of low-

cut grass. The boy and his brown body

glimmer under a sun that showers

light onto every outstretched

blade. How when the boy dribbles, he looks

like he’s dancing, how he’s got

capoeira in his hips, how his feet

have never learned of fatigue.