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      February 17, 2020Sam KillmeyerPlay Like a Boy

      The summer before I started
      seventh grade I shaved my head and never showered.
      I ran barefoot through Osage orange trees, tried my callouses
      against their thorns and rained hedge apples down
      on groundhog holes, yellow flesh exploding
      in sour fireworks against dirt.
      The summer before seventh grade I played
      parking lot soccer, neatly threaded the smooth rubber ball
      through the keeper’s legs, between the yellow windbreaker
      and watery pothole—you play like a boy
      he said, and we both knew
      it was the best compliment
      he could give, then—
      his late slide tackle on hard pea gravel
      and my crushed coke can arm bone
      shone in the x-ray’s relief.
      My cast was neon yellow, and I made him sign first,
      black initials on my elbow.
      I wore that fiberglass sleeve
      like a stinking trophy,
      pushed it into people’s faces for them to sign.
      The fall after I started seventh grade,
      my hair grew back in tufts.
      I rested my trumpet’s bell on
      grandma’s cursive, spit notes into my fist, silently
      took the extra hours to wrestle
      my left hand into forming letters.
      On team picture day
      the photographer pointed me
      toward the boys, and I tried to smile
      while they laughed. The fall after I started,
      I babysat a boy, showed him how to hit
      a hedge apple homerun,
      how to catch a frog in the scummed pond,
      cup it between your palms. He wrapped it
      in toilet paper, grinned, let the garage door
      down to crush it—yellow
      seeping into the paper’s folds.

      from #66 - Winter 2019

      Sam Killmeyer

      “I’ve been thinking about inheritance and what has made me who I am. Not just family inheritance, but cultural inheritance. As I follow the current news cycle, I’m thinking about how we can respond to power as poets. Art is always the first thing to be suppressed by authoritative regimes. Why? Because art has the power to change minds and souls. I’m not sure these poems achieve that, but I’m trying. I’m trying to look inside myself, trying to peel back what it means to be a white, female, American.”