We’ve have had our drinks. We’ve had
our crustaceans when you raise
your hand, call out the top bid,
lean one hip into mine, sway, say
I feel so good I could break someone’s heart.
Going once. She is bidding on a day for me
at Fenway Park. Going twice. I hold your wrist,
pull back your arm down hard against your leg.
My mother used to say, keep your hands
to yourself. The auctioneer stares me down,
leave her alone, let her make her own decision.
It was guilt made me do it. Did I not grind
my knuckles into my sister’s arm, her head,
give her noogie after noogie? Hey, it’s your own
funeral. Going Three Times. Sold to the man in the back.
The second you lost I knew I would have loved
that day at the ballpark. Is there no consolation
in this world of play and bruises?