I throw, he catches, he throws, I catch. It's beautiful

when the ball sails and the turf catches my flats like it's

jaws of life and I'm finally living. I throw, he catches,

he throws, I catch, I shoot and he makes the save with some

awkwardly perfect motion of the stick as it brushes through air and blocks

the net. It's easy rhythm, better than music or a sweating dance floor.

Simple, catches your breath and lets it back out.

I kiss him in my car and he wants to be a game I play

so he lets me be smoking my cigarette and I let him be back home.


Irish boy, you're a goalie and an alcoholic. Your father is too strong

and you say faggot as an insult. So take me back to your all-boys Catholic school

and I'll play catch with you and our beautiful lacrosse sticks.

Will you confess me on Sunday morning?