Saint

An infielder’s glove webbing shoe-laced weathered                stiff as
This diner slag’s Tuesday smile—lost, its boldness           the seared-

In signature Ron Santo. Sunnyside-up                were the Cubbies in
’69 then broke the yolk—                 yellow bleeding sopped by thin

Toast, hash                            browns limp in greased sleep, sausages
Shivered. Overcocked. We had cheered                      as long as my

Brother could bear the pain.                   Wanted to be as resilient as
Santo in ‘66                     when he recovered from a pitch hard to his

Head.              Came back two weeks later to continue                his
Hitting streak to 28 games. We cheered                       as long as my

Brother could bear the pain.              Wanted to click his heels back
Home                             like Santo. We cheered as long as he could.

Glove nested under clothes still bright as                 1969. Neglected
Grass. Last one buried.                House emptied. Sold. Think it was

Cancer.

 

 

 

 

encarnacionDan Encarnacion lives in Portland, Oregon. He has work forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, Big Bridge, Eleven Eleven, cream city review, and Upstairs at Duroc. He has recently been published in New American Writing, Poetry Daily, Southern Review, Blue Mesa Review, and The Los Angeles Review.

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