EB's Response to "Fast Break" by Edward Hirsch (Poet-to-Poet)

Four Square

Elyse Brownell

For Jadee (1983-2011)

She hit the ball out of turn,

sending it past the boundaries of the chalk drawn lines,

she was out, and Melinda was up next,

making her wide stance known, her large hands hanging

at her side, I spun the rubber skin on the tip of my finger,

called out the rules: “no returns” I said, pointing to Beth,

who is the smaller of the four of us, with less hand-eye coordination,

with a fear of Melinda’s hands, with a fear of returning the ball,

beyond the lines, a falling of hands pushing the ball began,

back and forth, one bounce in square one,

another in square three, and onto Melinda, in square four,

in the upper right-hand corner, fully intentional, fully knowing

she is left-handed, she reaches out across the line and taps

the ball to square one, where I am standing, I lunge forward

to prevent the second bounce in my square, but miss

causing the ball to roll off of Beth’s foot and tumble

into the brick wall behind us, which responds

back to the rubber ball, and sends it out across the street

rolling down the hill, jumping up from hitting rocks,

and the tires of the cars lining the street,

ending in a gutter near the stop sign and wobbling into

the dip, until Beth retrieves it,

“Nice one, Liz,” Melinda’s hands say,

I exit the squares to take my place at the back of the line,

“you’re out,” she insists, just as Beth

returns with the ball, dribbling it a few times with

a new sense of confidence since before she left

to retrieve the ball, “I’m in square one, now” Beth announces,

Jeremy jumps into square four, and I stand off to the side,

“black jack” Beth says, “you can’t do that” Melinda says,

“watch me,” Beth says, and calls “game on” before bouncing the

ball to Jeremy in square four, who sends it to Cheryl in square two,

back to Beth, who twists her hands to throw off Melinda,

in square three, but Melinda sends it back to Beth, who catches it,

the sound of the ball in Beth’s hands echoes against the brick wall

silence falls over every mouth in line, waiting their turn to beat Melinda,

“black jack,” Beth smirks, “no way!” Melinda cries,

“sorry, those are the rules, I called it,” the rest of the kids

standing in line ahead of me cheer, as Mega Melinda has been defeated,

but this time she seems smaller, her back hunched over as

she crosses the boundaries outside of the game, I watch her

kick a pebble into the grass as her head hangs low, her hands

in her pocket, I feel a pull toward her and place my hand on her shoulder

“it’s okay, Melinda, it’s just a game,” she looks up from the ground

shifting her focus onto me, she begins to cry, and hugs me,

our bodies pressed into each other, not realizing the ball

is rolling around us, has stopped against my heel, and stays there,

as time stands still and I am left with the news of her death

fifteen years later, trying to recall a single memory that occurred

after four square, like our prom, or sitting in her room

surrounded by posters of boy bands, declaring which of the five men

were our boyfriends, thinking, at the time, that no other moment could possibly

be worse than finding out that one of the boy band members has a girlfriend,

or nothing could possibly get any better than finding out that the yellow-haired boy

that sits in front of you in math class, thinks about you too,

but all I can recall is the sound of the ball on the concrete that day

the way she hugged me, and stopped being Mega Melinda,

but rather a friend, a teammate, to someday become a wife, a mother, and now,

merely, the dust kicked up by a ball bouncing somewhere, without a sound.

Glimpse

Elyse Brownell

for Jadee

Even now, after thinking about you for days,

I am no closer to finding you.

I stand in a room and summon your memory

but come up empty-handed, left with

carbon copies of your face in photographs

left with a still-frame of us in the basement,

the lower ceilings we resided under,

your father in his recliner with the volume on the TV

too loud, the walls of your bedroom covered with

posters of our favorite bands, your carpet, matted,

stains of make-up, nail polish, and paint chippings,

the threshold to the back room, burgundy concrete floors,

the full-length mirror, the lighting in your bathroom,

the sound of the front door, the smells in the kitchen,

and your bedroom floor, rolling cigarettes,

drinking wine coolers, trying to decipher the day’s problems.

did we ever talk about death (?) after we heard that statistic from

our guidance counselor about the 1 and 4 odds of making it to our ten year reunion.

I wore black that day.

I said your name at least twice.

I wished the red wine

was actually a wine cooler and we were back in the basement

hiding from the outside world, together.

But the room I stand in isn't at all a place where I can ever find you,

even if I hold 1,000 photographs and try to talk to each one,

I can’t hear your laugh in my ear, or the sound of you knuckles

each one cracking louder than the next.

I can only hope that the sound of the heater turning on,

or the blinds against my window sill swaying for no reason,

is the passing of our memories, a passing that can only

be captured by the smallest glimpses of your light;

that’s all anyone is after they’re gone.

In response to:

"Fast Break"

Edward Hirsch