Elegy for Mark
Half our days we scoured fields for wild throws.
Once, because I could, I threw too hard
past your mitt, catching your forehead and hell.
So long guilt lasts, that I should recall that
before the joys of your lean life, easy smile,
kind words. I would not judge your habits
that hurt you as if to spare others. You knew
what cheer to steal. Birth curses skewed your odds.
Mark, every baseball wears your bruise. In all
the streets of our home town trees lean into
their age, ice-heavy limbs cracked. Addresses
have changed their minds. Promises written on
grass forget our names. Our hearts search for us
in old fields grown forever wild with loss.
by Loren Sundlee
2015-from twenty-first chapbook