He has a knack for the bent stick, sees
its curved course before it even leaves his hand.
Lifting elbow, flicking wrist, he sends it loop-sailing
a wide lazy arc. It hooks left, flips right. I cringe
when it lops toward me but it turns away again
without grazing my head. He meanders
on the grass while it spins high like a propellor
—bands of blue and yellow flickering into circles—
then lands at his feet for the next toss.
Round after round, he follows u-turns,
fickle shifts, triumphant pinwheels as he learns
by heart each offbeat trajectory.
its curved course before it even leaves his hand.
Lifting elbow, flicking wrist, he sends it loop-sailing
a wide lazy arc. It hooks left, flips right. I cringe
when it lops toward me but it turns away again
without grazing my head. He meanders
on the grass while it spins high like a propellor
—bands of blue and yellow flickering into circles—
then lands at his feet for the next toss.
Round after round, he follows u-turns,
fickle shifts, triumphant pinwheels as he learns
by heart each offbeat trajectory.
By Sarah Carleton
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