The BOOKPRESS May 1999


Carol Rubenstein

The scores my Cousin Martin got from the radio
coded directly into his bloodstream. Head dialed close, he knew
hits runs errors strikes, everybody's averages until the very
verge of batting moment, breath catch high and inside, and there’s
the pitch:

And the crowd roars. And Joltin' Joe relocates
the stations of his personal geometry, lit diamond echo blazing
out from the Yankee Stadium just three local
bases loaded down on the subway stop from where in the Bronx
Marty memorized glory: And it’s a line drive into left field, how

far to home, the silence pounds its run, long gone.
How some brief numbering
keeps, overhead speedball streak still wheeling wow this once
only circuit, the swung sum of it. That crack
of solid connect O boy, goes around comes face toward us. Now's

the time's total, is a spun wobble suddenly clipped
alone, or never batter's up bat was flung. From human side let go
be that forever ball falling
back, back soundless into arc: Where home is purely here and how
about that

                                                                —Carol Rubenstein

Carol Rubenstein collected and translated songs, chants, and epics in
Borneo and returned, living now in Ithaca.

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