Author: Reagan Wilson

the baby stands in the hands of a man
outside the new cafe
having seen treats handed to dogs
he tries to offer the treat in his hand to the dog
he’s the community baby
the man tells us
he never cries
he’s handed between a clutch of folks
all of them are his
he doesn’t smile
he regards each of us
with his precise eyes
standing in the man’s hands
he’s halcyon
knows nothing but standing
having seen standing
so why not aloft
above the dog
over the sidewalk
in the care of the street
in the hands of the sky 

but for fucks sake is sound a mirror of sound
tone of tone language is a gesture
the way the horizon rends two directions

what even am i trying at   i would like not to be in these poems
the way i exactly was not being in my life while appearing 
very much to anyone observing to be a person inhabiting a life    ball don’t lie 
in the obliteration i once wondered at how wild it was
i could chop fruit so deftly when i wasn’t even there 
knife trust through strawberries   it was weird to have hands 
 i would like not to be in this poem 
but i can’t keep trying to write about these
neurons crucial to the generation of actual selfhood 
without showing up too   & how watching women’s soccer flung me 
(whoops!) back into this selfhood  what the fuck was that about
except maybe soccer was mine before i even was mine
the way empathy belonged to art before it was between us
we’re always reflecting off of everything  always stealing   the air on the field
isn’t any different  but call it an atmosphere and it becomes one
even these mirrors metaphors for mirrors 
we think of pain as private but our brains treat it as something shared* 
when i wasn’t there no one could see i was shards   but here i am 

*from *the secret lives of sports fans* by Eric Simmons

a flare of mirrors followed backwards down
to the field the field which does exist and composites
every met field and imagined field and watched
and over heard of and read about a latticed strata   there was  a before
and that before took notes    a pulse   want’s rote echo off
want’s surfaces the brain really wants an answer
to the who-am-i question*  the field is a container
the way the game is a container     we find out
by finding out  a heart char stirred game recognizing
game recognizing game  

*from *the secret lives of sports fans* by Eric Simmons

before a self a field 
cut green on the air 
sudden shin significance 
a face lights up where
we generate our faces
the field lights up the field 
grass   shapes   possible & actual 
relationships delineated
by chalk    rules   time
exact & endless  how little actually
is the ball while all of it is    
as much space as touch