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tuesday basketball bending his knees, the calves readying to push his taut thighs, isaac was preparing to leave the earth; to ascend, to float; his lean body perfectly formed by fifteen years of practice; the insistent call that came from unknown depths; that made him search the city every night for a gymnasium that might be open; that kind of gruelling, tortuous practice that compelled him to shovel the snow off the playgrounds in the dead of winter; the kind of practice that was tedious, lonely; that cracked the skin on his fingers until they bled from the constant dribbling of a basketball in his basement; to achieve the ultimate grace and beauty of soaring to a zenith; and throwing a roundball ever so gently off his fingers; to watch it glide thru space, and unbelievably go thru a target high in the air, from any distance away; running free as a thought; abruptly slamming to a halt; releasing a round object with no free will, but which arbitrarily seemed to possess one; and persuading it, caressing it, and coaxing it to dance lightly in the air, in the almost impossible task of threading it thru a circumference barely larger than the ball; the dream of all marksmen: a hole in one. from the top of his jump, isaac, falling from the sky; touching every star he had ever known; the bright ones, the cold ones; exploding; like a private plane out of control; the orange rim of the basket not stationary, but out of kilter; moving back and forth so he couldn't follow it; like a camera at an assassination; isaac's vision blurred, out of focus; his mind splintered in so many ways; he plunged awkwardly to the floor; aware that nobody cared if he made his one or two baskets in that sweaty workout; squinted his eyes as he followed the arc of the ball; that very same fifteen year old ball; eternal in its form; telling him what he knew so long ago; that swishing a basket was the sweetest feeling in the world; an act of perfection; holy, sexual; telling him now in that dank gym, with huffing, humorless men, as he completed his frightening jump; to relinquish memories of his greatness; to forget respect that was once his; his poet's soft touch with the roundball forever obliterated; reduced now to the humiliation of being tenth man; that all that mattered now was to try, strain, off balance as he always was; to push, scratch if necessary, gouge, throw the ball with the agonized efforts of a shotputter; telling him now just to keep trying; knowing of course it didn't matter. isaac missed. someone else made the basket. he would get the roundball again, but not right away. he would be a beast of burden again. isaac, above all, had seen the blade coming straight for his throat; he had felt the unspeakable terror of certain death; a death demanded by a blind, insane god; that same god who incomprehensibly stopped the sacrifice, but left a little scream where once there was a young shepherd. isaac would throw the basketball again; and he would see the arm suddenly lurch upward again,out of nowhere; and the icepick come out at him; only to see it in mind wrecking ambiguity, disappear again. isaac curled up on the wooden gym floor; killing time; singing a song of lunacy, chanting and praying for some silly relief; coldly aware how ludicrous his life was; drained by the hopelessness of it; well-grounded in his fate and acquiescing in it; because there was nothing else. isaac saw the players running towards the other basket. he looked away; and saw that he was dancing a beautiful dance with a lithe, white-skated girl on a frozen river; that wound its way thru dark bridges until they were dancing around and around with all the free gliding couples. the basketball players came back down the court on a fastbreak. isaac stood up, and blushingly let go of the girl's hand. someone passed him the ball; with some anxiety he caught the ball; he stretched his body up towards the basket and could see the image of the white skated girl shatter; he made an easy basket. it was all so easy; it was all so beautiful |
| Other poems: for devorah for devorah ii "he leaned against someone who cared" In My Dreams Poesy Syllogism Blues "we are all trees in a forest" "Yes I died" |