The Crossover

For Dad

My free throw flirts with the rim and

loops, twirls, for a million years,

then drops, and for once, we’re up, 49–48,

five dancers on stage, leaping, jumping

so high, so fly,

eleven seconds from sky

A hard drive, a fast break, their best player

slices the thick air toward the goal.

His pull-up jumper

floats through the net,

then everything goes slow motion:

the ball, the player . . .

Coach calls time-out

with only five seconds to go.

I wish the ref could stop

the clock of my life.

Just one more game.

I think my father is dying,

and now I am out of bounds

when I see a familiar face

behind our bench. My brother,

Jordan Bell, head buried

in Sweet Tea, his eyes

welling with horror.

Before I know it, the whistle blows,

the ball in my hand,

the clock running down,

my tears running faster.