From the Fishouse

Quiet next door for days, weeks even,
then spring. Windows open, outside
a dusty field, thrown jackets, improvised
bases, the thwap of baseballs in mitts,
the outrage of nine year old umpires
shrieking across the diamond, still
young enough to resort to weeping,
the high moan of wailing unfiltered by the screen.

From the church next door, music wafts in,
the high voice of boy sopranos, the celestial teams
of boys, cloaked in gowns, the tender bruise
of their young bodies hidden. Underneath
those near dresses, skinned knees, ladders
of ribs, white bellies, fury.

In the air,
the bright oh of their mouths, rounded
around a language they cannot understand;
below that, other boys playing, making
the fluent racket of their bodies, beginning
that descent into bass and tenor, that deepening music.