rookie year / bird season

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You’d think this was my rookie year

The way I’m pulled into the games—

Like children’s games, where the rules

Never stay the same. I say,

“That’s not allowed.” But you stand square,

“Uh huh! I can do that now.”

This latest round has me praying

For the bench. Pull me from the game.

I’m tired. Sloppy passing. Missed shots.

Stumbling over my own feet.

Fouling myself.

It’s masturbation. I’m fucking myself—

Fucking myself over.

Me: d’objet du jour.

You: giggling audience,

Not even watching,

On your phone,

Taking a selfie.

#GoTeam.

This happens every quarter.

Till the buzzer sounds.

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Brace yourself—this isn’t just a metaphor anymore.

Yesterday a bird died. I killed it.

I covered a blueberry bush with a net—

I followed the internet’s advice—

She went for a berry. For herself.

Her family. A sweet little treat.

A jeweled lie dressed as fruit.

Then tangled up. Died right there.

Not my intent, but the result.

How my husband and I cried

When he said, “Some mockingbird

Has lost its mate. Some eggs have lost

A mommy.” That is like you:

Careless attention,

Spread like wildflower seeds—

And me,

A hungry bird,

More reckless. More stupid.

Falling into it.

The only victims?

The ones abandoned in the nest.

The bird. Me. You.

Even the net—

strung to help, now in the trash

with a dead bird.

This game we made:

Everybody loses.

We are all rookies this year.

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