Having Eaten of the Fruit

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 HAVING EATEN OF THE FRUIT


            — "confusion hath made his masterpiece." —Macduff, from Shakespeare's Macbeth.



The ball floated up 

like incense, an offering 

to whichever god held up 


the evening and off the gathering

rain, but the two of you 

eyed it like a strange fruit,


mouths watering as you clamored

mine, mine, convinced that you

could field it better 


than the setting sun 

it reached for. A brief silence

after the clamor and then


the collision. We crowded

around as Amorelli’s eyes

rolled sickly in his head,


trying to make sense

of the fall, of right from left

and wrong in this now topsy-


turvy world. We led him stumbling 

back to the bench, where there—

as if to stamp that this was no longer


the place we knew, and nothing

would make straight sense

anymore—our unofficial chaplain


strung out a series of profanities, 

not in his right mind 

and re-minding us that we’re


no better off, the order

of things—at least here,

beneath the stadium lights—


unstitched and fraying.

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