Growing up, I knew more about football
than ballet or Barbie dolls, pigskin
in the South second only to God,
and only then on the Sabbath day.

I’d edge into pickup games with the boys
and they’d take me in—y’all get the girl—
but made me run wide, sweeping hooks

that kept me clear out of the way
til the day Jackson wrenched his rotator cuff
and they let me try quarterback.

I spread my fingers through the laces
the way my dad had taught me to
and sent it spiraling clean and long
into Kenneth’s outstretched arms.

From then on, I was all-time
boy: fists full of hair, sunken teeth,
fractured bones, their brawling bodies

dogpiling me down
and always a quick, anonymous squeeze
where one day my breasts would be.