Kings of the Court

The boys box-out in twos, shuffling on the balls

of their feet like they got the ghost. They circle us

in a race confined by lines, like we playing

around the world in grade school. We cool enough

to shoot craps and wager Mary Janes for Converse.

How they held the glow of streetlights. Made us fall

deep in what we didn’t know was loving.

We were the dark ladies for the poets at court.

They moved in cursive, goaltended one another

to make us dance. We spent our knees on this.

We’d cheer the boys into turnovers, coo at pivots,

turn our feet so they didn’t know we’d go

with them. Some days, they played foul. We found

girls trampled by trains and set to pick-and-roll

the brother into blues. We read The Most Dangerous

Game aloud as we braided our hair. The boys

danced to the soundtrack of the hood: raps

on the door, numbers on the porch, and dozens

shot on the other side of the court, till laughter

bounced off the backboards and pierced our chests.

We call out to the gangly boys hands up! and stretch

marks snicker up our sides when their teammates

say, don’t shoot! We took the charge when they spit

in our direction. The light-brights only come outside

at dusk. We were crushed velvet, stomping

our feet on stars to take flight. The park is a wake

of air currents from the boys who gave up the ghost.

The season of dead Black boys pulls us

like an August moon, a high-top fading

as we all remember the court.