Grass

The memory of a football field
weaves itself into a poem,
images rush in
like legs of men;
thighs so fit and sweaty
you could wrap your life around them
for the kick.

The grass is always greener
around the opponent's goal post,
so explained the footballer to the grass;
but I grow whichever way I please,
the bruises left by men in half-pants
never seem to heal.

Does the grass have memories?

There are some men who bend over
and kiss me, sometimes
remember to touch
with their faces and hands,
and not just their feet,
what holds them up.

Some nights the goal posts stand like
lovers who can never meet,
except exchanging conversations
through the grass
that is green on both sides,
and lays herself down
at both of their feet,
like so much melancholy,
so many unsaid things,
the unrealized goals, that never reached.

An island of lush green victory,
or a sea of loss and misery,
she wavers between
two points, outdoing neither
and none-
the broken nose of Bastian,
the falling grace of Zidane-
are both memories,
folded back into
a green body.

December 2015