Kieran Collier
Slugger
He calls his son slugger. Because fatherhood
has always been held together with red
yarn stitches. And Barry is a runner. Runs
so fast he becomes a blur across the screen.
Touches his father’s hand through a pane
of glass. Isn’t that how it always goes?
A boy loves his father but something
stands between them. Their love
can never be more than talks of sports.
Fighting. Lessons about being a man.
Seeing an offering of love but
unable to hold it with their own hands.
When I was younger, my dad and I
would watch Joe Torre’s Yankees
on our old television. Mariano Rivera’s
cutter moved so quickly it broke
most of the bats it met, barely
on the screen long enough to see.
We always saw it leave the hand.
Saw it disappear in speed. It clocked
in so high, we couldn’t believe
what was right in front of us.
We inched closer to the screen.
He calls his son slugger. Because fatherhood
has always been held together with red
yarn stitches. And Barry is a runner. Runs
so fast he becomes a blur across the screen.
Touches his father’s hand through a pane
of glass. Isn’t that how it always goes?
A boy loves his father but something
stands between them. Their love
can never be more than talks of sports.
Fighting. Lessons about being a man.
Seeing an offering of love but
unable to hold it with their own hands.
When I was younger, my dad and I
would watch Joe Torre’s Yankees
on our old television. Mariano Rivera’s
cutter moved so quickly it broke
most of the bats it met, barely
on the screen long enough to see.
We always saw it leave the hand.
Saw it disappear in speed. It clocked
in so high, we couldn’t believe
what was right in front of us.
We inched closer to the screen.
Earth 2
In the alternate reality, Iris tells Barry
his mother left them a message. His mother
killed by a force no one would believe
is real, now alive in another world.
She can walk and order lunch outside
when the weather stretches its arms
and drink wine to help her fall asleep
and she can fall asleep and wake up after.
So he calls her, lets the phone ring
and lets her answer and answer
while he remains silent
on the other line.
They don't show her face, only her voice
calm and unassuming, contrasted
with the heartbreak in his eyes
and the single tear falling down his face.
They don't show her healthy and alive, and I think
that's why I broke down at the thought of it.
Never once did I imagine my mother, alive, now,
as healthy—cheeks full and arms defined,
muscle and life still present in her skin.
They gave me the voice. My brain sped
to fill in the gaps, and I fell into a weeping
I didn't know lived inside of me.
I guess, I never thought
I'd hear a voice on the other line.
Never imagined you calling to thank me
for something so mundane--
tickets I bought for you and Dad.
I guess I never thought you'd call at all.
In the alternate reality, Iris tells Barry
his mother left them a message. His mother
killed by a force no one would believe
is real, now alive in another world.
She can walk and order lunch outside
when the weather stretches its arms
and drink wine to help her fall asleep
and she can fall asleep and wake up after.
So he calls her, lets the phone ring
and lets her answer and answer
while he remains silent
on the other line.
They don't show her face, only her voice
calm and unassuming, contrasted
with the heartbreak in his eyes
and the single tear falling down his face.
They don't show her healthy and alive, and I think
that's why I broke down at the thought of it.
Never once did I imagine my mother, alive, now,
as healthy—cheeks full and arms defined,
muscle and life still present in her skin.
They gave me the voice. My brain sped
to fill in the gaps, and I fell into a weeping
I didn't know lived inside of me.
I guess, I never thought
I'd hear a voice on the other line.
Never imagined you calling to thank me
for something so mundane--
tickets I bought for you and Dad.
I guess I never thought you'd call at all.
Speed Mirage
It was raining as I ran along the grey water chopping
back and forth. I thought I heard a familiar sneaker squeak
behind me, but turned my head to empty pavement.
Could have sworn feet were pressing themselves
behind me, thought my shadow must be running, too.
Another me keeping pace, smirking alongside my sweaty mass.
Sound tends to brush my fingertips just out of reach.
I ask my students to repeat themselves always. Can’t catch
what they’ve said on the first go around. I’ve never known
a sound to be all mine. It made me think
of that episode when the man in red ran so fast
he slipped into the past and found his old frame,
only to take over and re-live the same day.
What’s that like? To capture hours you thought lost?
To hold someone you thought you’d never see again?
To turn back the clock and know the next words
out of everyone’s mouths? I wish I didn’t have staircase wit,
wish I could speed mirage. What was that? could become
a phrase of the past. Everything could become the past.
Or the future. I don’t pretend to understand time travel,
just want to say I’m sorry before I need to.
That day we ate cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting
instead of icing we fought for hours. If I went back,
I’d still live the same way, knowing at the end of the night
we’d hold our own shadows, pleasantly confused
that they were each other’s.
It was raining as I ran along the grey water chopping
back and forth. I thought I heard a familiar sneaker squeak
behind me, but turned my head to empty pavement.
Could have sworn feet were pressing themselves
behind me, thought my shadow must be running, too.
Another me keeping pace, smirking alongside my sweaty mass.
Sound tends to brush my fingertips just out of reach.
I ask my students to repeat themselves always. Can’t catch
what they’ve said on the first go around. I’ve never known
a sound to be all mine. It made me think
of that episode when the man in red ran so fast
he slipped into the past and found his old frame,
only to take over and re-live the same day.
What’s that like? To capture hours you thought lost?
To hold someone you thought you’d never see again?
To turn back the clock and know the next words
out of everyone’s mouths? I wish I didn’t have staircase wit,
wish I could speed mirage. What was that? could become
a phrase of the past. Everything could become the past.
Or the future. I don’t pretend to understand time travel,
just want to say I’m sorry before I need to.
That day we ate cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting
instead of icing we fought for hours. If I went back,
I’d still live the same way, knowing at the end of the night
we’d hold our own shadows, pleasantly confused
that they were each other’s.
Kieran Collier is a Boston based writer and educator. He is the author of When the Gardener Has Left (Wilde Press, 2015) and This to You (Beard Poetry, 2016). His work has been featured in the anthologies MultiVerse: A Write Bloody Superhero Anthology and Again I Wait for This to Pull Apart, as well as multiple online and print journals. He believes that children are smarter than adults. His favorite color is orange. @kieranwcollier