Playground wars

My captains were all blonde,

eager to conquer the rails

and bars like valkyries

in tennis shoes.

The boys would swarm, giving chase,

eager to send wood chips flying

like bullets, pushing us down

or forward,

more intent on the motion

than the conquest—

run like you can lap time,

stretch recess into tomorrow.

Sometimes we staged a coupe, allowing a boy

into the ranks, switching sides like kids

on the seesaw, birds flying in a v

toward the metal

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rays of a playground sun.

We ran and ran

and ran

Kicking cooties

Sailing the elementary seas,

I faced the freckled girls,

long-limbed sirens

blaring

like fog horns, scattering reason

and thought. Other girls

orbited a different sun,

hands busy

constructing ideas and hobbies I’d never

heard of, could care less of. Cruel

girls, fierce girls. Indifferent girls.

Girls who played

kickball in the same painted confines as me.

And when my turn comes to send the ball

skyward, the others crowd in

like fans cooing

at their pet star—get in close enough to steal

confidence and air. He’ll fold again.

But one day I rear like

the ancient knights

on flaming horses

and slam the ball into the future.

Not even the girls could bring

that shooting star down.