In the locker room, the linebacker
fixes his eyes on the light bulb
hanging from a hook, thinks of his neck
up there with it, while the quarterback
points a finger to his skull,
pretends the thumb is a trigger
& wavers over pulling it. When James Wright
said suicidally beautiful, those bodies
launched together, did he mean it
this way too? Skulls cracked & cracked
against each other & the turf while,
in the parking lot, a mother refuses
to enter the gate, a father smokes brisket
for the concession stands & isn’t witness
to his son, the special teams gunner,
roaring past the 50, slamming
into the return-man, & falling helpless
to the field. What quiet
is quieter than the thousands of voices
suddenly hushed, of the other boys
as they kneel in prayer
& what’s louder than the applause
when he stumbles to his feet,
takes a play off, then pops back in
at defensive back? In two years,
he’ll be a darkened comet on the sidelines
somewhere in the Missouri Valley,
won’t make his first class on Mondays
because it’s too much—the way the head
shakes & shakes. Suicidally
beautiful. & when the games end,
years later, watch. Watch the way
the hand keeps fumbling,
the fingers have stopped
understanding what the brain
needs. The way everything has.