After I fumble another conversation about love, I think, 
Bird wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment, played 
coy as if everyone didn’t already know what #33 would do, 
daggers for eyes, soft hands ready to guide that orange ball 
exactly where he said he would. I’ve taken shots before, 
fear be damned, and missed more than I made, 
gone up and down the court enough to know 
halftime won’t fix everything. 
I’m bruised, my knee barks, my shot is shit, and I 
just need the bank to be open for once, for the glass to 
kiss the ball back, softly. I’m always writing to you 
like a last-ditch prayer, a heave from halfcourt 
moving like a meteor, like I could turn this white page of 
nothing into a night sky, these words constellations, 
old messages that would say in a hundred different 
shapes that I love you. All I ever wanted was Bird’s game, 
quietly telling opponents the spot on the floor where he would 
rise, after a screen and two dribbles, in the corner like a yellow 
sun and let the ball fly. I’m always writing to you 
to remind myself that all love poems are about the future. 
Under the bright lights of this metaphor, I’m digging deep, not 
vanishing when it matters most, to find the heart to take a shot 
when the clock winds down to nothing. The X-Man, 
Xavier McDaniel, laughs when he tells of how Bird took his heart once. 
You already know you have mine when the clock says 
zero my no-look mouth, my honey crossover, my silky net.

I wonder what I’d do
               with eight arms, two eyes
                              & too many ways to give
                                             myself away

                                             see, I only have one heart
                              & I know loving a woman can make you crawl
               out from under yourself, or forget
the kingdom that is your body

& what would you say, octopus?
               that you live knowing nobody
                              can touch you more
                                             than you do already

                                             that you can’t punch anything underwater
                              so you might as well drape yourself
                                             around it, bring it right up to your mouth
                              let each suction cup kiss what it finds

                                             that having this many hands
                              means to hold everything
               at once & nothing
to hold you back

that when you split
               you turn your blood
                              blue & pour
                                             out more ocean

                                             that you know heartbreak so well
                              you remove all your bones
so nothing can kill you.