Poem For A New Year

She flew over America like a neon billboard for dish soap
wearing a death mask lit like a ball park for a night game.
The pitch was low, the batter blind,
the fans went wild as the catcher
engulfed the ball with a glove wider than China.
She floated toward the halogen bulbs
crazy for joy, cheer, dawn and ivory.
Hurricanes rummaged through deltas while
crickets hung on by their toenails.
She passed a baboon in a tree and touched it
with her hand; their eyes met wide.
There were no more garages and no more left fields.
Only right field remained and the short stop
who had appeared at dawn never came again.
She reefed herself down with guy ropes
toward a place between the miracles,
flashed her day-glo fingernails and smiled.
The earth had grown large and round beneath.
She slid across home plate like a matchstick;
the tall grass burst into fireworks
the park became an empty socket
the players’ hands went dumb.
She dug frantically through a jumble of shoes
and found the ground. It was fine powder,
pulverized chocolate, crushed graphite and snow.
The Empire called her out like an Emperor.
She turned, bathed in the lights, thrust her hand
down and dragged out the earth’s long intestinal skeins.
The crowd went wild.


Ann Hunkins is a poet, translator and videographer living in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Hunkins has published poems in many anthologies and journals.

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