By Kenton K. Yee
The stadium’s surprisingly variegated,
like sunrise, tea gardens, the red-light district.
Passes aren’t pigskins but shooting stars.
Every spiral not deflected is hugged
and tucked away. The knights have obsessions:
grunting, cussing, getting faster jumps
on each snap. When tackling starts,
helmets glitter with the electricity
of sloshing waves. Grip me. Wrap your fingers
around my belly and spiral me up
to the Milky Way. Turn me into an eagle
arcing into the arms of the fastest chevalier.
Boot me high. Make me flip head-over-ass
into the caldron of tubby jumping beans.
About the Author:
Kenton K. Yee’s recent poems appear (or will soon) in Kenyon Review, Threepenny Review, Cincinnati Review, RHINO, Quarterly West, Poetry Northwest, Stonecoast, Columbia Journal, Electric Literature, Poetry Wales, Slipstream, Rattle, and other venues. His debut poetry chapbook is expected from Bull City Press in 2027. He writes from Northern California. FB:@scrambled.k.eggs INSTA:@kentonkyeepoet