It’s early October and young men
gallop terribly against each other’s bodies
and I am six years old sprawled on the floor
with my crayons and princess coloring book
watching the game with my dad
who exhales beer scent as he explains
the purpose of huddles, the patient sequence
of downs, how our team makes gains
yard by violent yard in their helmets
blazoned with genocide and extinction, how it ends
with a Hail Mary full of grace as a bullet
of pigskin spirals in glory, held up
by the gathered voice of the crowd, flies
from one hand into the outstretched palms
of another who catches, clutches, runs
though pursued, pursued, then brought down
like prey and the people surge
onto the gridiron, add their muscle and bone
to the chaos of push and shove and I
continue to fill in the long skirt
of the princess with waxy strokes of pink
and purple, my young brain full of men
grappling around the beleaguered quarterback
and my dad cracks open another can
and Sunday stands at the back door
making its excuses for going
as evening unrolls its mauve shadows
to soothe the pocked turf
and the crowd drains from the exits
like a river exhausted by flood.