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Summer Games
By Pamela Yenser

Blame me. Blame history.
Or blame yourself if life lies
foul and love's a mystery
(foul play!) we half realize
through our fingers in the dark—
like those leather-hard, hand-sewn
balls of flesh which symbolize
your sex. To each his own.

Now give me your hand—and glove.
Let me show you a softer mound,
greener fields empty with love,
a lighter stick to swing around.
You started this game in the first place,
bragging how you'd gotten to first base.


PAMELA YENSER enjoys watching her husband follow the Red Sox. She is currently an MFA student at the University of Idaho and has published poems not about baseball in Ascent, Kansas Quarterly, Midwest Quarterly, Massachusetts Review, Poetry Northwest, and Shenandoah.

© 2001 Pamela Yenser


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