In the Month of Cleaning Family Plots

     In the month of cleaning family plots, I learned football among graves. All summer, fangs were plentiful. I fed only on fruit and acorns next to a nest built in a discarded doll marking the 50-yard line.
     From snakes licking my ears, sounds of trees, and whispers from the dead, I learned to read plays by how the opposing team huddled.
     On the field, I gave the appearance of lightning, a wardrobe of open wounds. Magical goon who knew a love that outlasted bottles of tequila and all the Cure albums. It, too, was true.