Evie Shockley Poems
|2.||A Background In Music||10/23/2014|
|4.||From The Lost Letters Of Frederick Douglass||10/23/2014|
|5.||On New Year's Eve||10/23/2014|
|6.||Playing With Fire||10/23/2014|
|7.||Effect Shrewd Preferences||10/23/2014|
|8.||Pantoum: Landing, 1976||10/23/2014|
|10.||Statistical Haiku (Or, How Do They Discount Us? Let Me Count The Ways)||10/23/2014|
|11.||Her Tin Skin||10/23/2014|
|12.||Waiting On The Mayflower||10/23/2014|
|13.||Notes To My Nieces (Or, Essays In Fortune-Telling )||10/23/2014|
|14.||Where You Are Planted||10/23/2014|
|15.||A Sonnet For Stanley Tookie Williams||10/23/2014|
|16.||— Shall Become As —||10/23/2014|
|17.||Where Is It Clean||1/1/2004|
i cop a squat on a squared-off log,
to watch you ball on the community center court.
butt numb, i shift my weight
and shake mosquitos from my ankles,
but never take my eyes off the game.
yours follow the orange orb, your pupils
twin, brown moons reflecting its light.
your play is wild efficiency,
you are a four-pronged magic wand,
waving, as if agentless, in all directions at once.
an opponent dribbles the ball - now he sees it,
now he don't, it's gone, flown,
and you've given it its wings.
you are one-eighth of the shrieking ...
Where Is It Clean
when your mother can rise from her place
on the pew during the early service,
early enough that the sun barely fills the sky
with its weak straw, but row after row
in the auditorium is flush with folks who want
to be home before the football game gets underway