A year in: spring cleaning

The story of the ball is soft like your fontanel
like my recollection of your fontanel
but its grass stains from front-lawn games
my father’s face crumpling like aluminum
every time I ducked away from the flyball goose-eggs
he lofted high in the hope that I would catch on:
those are deep bruises
that wear me.

Your grandfather liked it better when I stood my ground
and described the world as it hurtled
towards me. I preferred to wear the glove’s womb
of skin and sweat on my head
and try for the thing bare-handed
even though half the time I missed
at the last second. I always had a diadem of lumps
by hour’s end. I cried every time it hit me
but I cried every time he refused
to throw it again.

* * *
There's a beautiful g-d day outside, but I'm neglecting it in favour of the wonky multitude of poems that I'm beginning to shape into a manuscript.

My goal? To batter the thing into something recognizably book-like for The Writers' Federation of New Brunswick's Alfred G. Bailey prize for poetry manuscripts.