poetry 20 : without looking where, she lets go.
Watching Nina bowl
The guys in the next lane are all biceps and beer,
their eyes on the prize of a night's high score.
They fling the ball toward the pins as if the lane was mere afterthought,
an inconsequential distance toward the meat of their destruction.
Nina cuts a slight figure in the evening's lineup.
The ball looks so heavy in her hands. When she steps up
to the starting line, her knees are unsteady, shoulders quivering.
Watching Nina bowl, I see it takes all her weight just to hang on,
and she does, and what happens next is a triumph over the scoreboard entirely,
that terrible, blistering need for perfection. Without looking where, she lets go.
Would that we could triumph over the scoreboard entirely, that terrible, blistering need for perfection. And without looking where, let go.