Work Text:
in the palm of your hand you feel
the leather of the ball. consider it carefully
before the toss is made. the piercing
scream of the whistle, of his gaze,
molten eyes on yours, considering.
toss, serve, jog, play—
watch him. the fire of his hair and
in his footsteps and the feint of his,
weight forward then back—
consider the whistle. a point has been made
and the crowd cheers and hisses and
you are aflame.
a challenge in the cock of his eyebrow
and the gleam of his grin.
he who gave you back your name,
and the promise of your grandfather
alive in he who stands before you.
consider the mountains of Miyagi, where
a quiet marker stands.
solid, dark. your family name there engraved.
through their peaks may they echo:
the raggedness of your breath,
the ringing of your voice
as you decide the toss, that he
may hear. consider a laugh, or a cackle, a boy—
a man—clasping your hand,
him golden in the overhead light.
fingers light over your knuckles, tracing,
lacing, and the lasting impressions
on the big screen above that don’t
really matter. “Tobio,”
you hear, and the world is one name said back.
you whisper it
and he hears.
across mountains and oceans
(you are at least sure about oceans)
he hears, he hears.