Owed to Ankle Weights

Far as we could tell, Mark dreamt

of weightlessness & little else,

an entire career built upon

leapfrogging elephants

& lesser men. Though he

never deployed this exact

imagery in a public speech

or more casual tête-à-tête

over hot fries & Powerade,

the dream was well- known

throughout the jailhouse

beige middle school hallways

we bolted through.

Mark wears ankle weights

every day because that

is what ballers do

when they are serious,

& Mark is very serious

when it comes to

the business of giving

out buckets as a kind

of spiritual practice, ascension

under control, an outlet

pass flying language-like

across the length

of the court, Mark

catching the so-worn

-it’s-almost-gold

sphere in his dominant

palm, switching

to the left without what most

would call thought, soaring

like an invocation

to the cylinder & the crowd

leaps right along with him.

Hands aloft in awe

of the boy who must have

some falcon in his blood

-line somewhere, the sheer

eloquence of his movement

enough to make them forget

whatever heaviness like a second

skeleton held them flush to the ground

that day, whatever slight or malice

born in silence by necessity

simply melts, falls like a man

made of flowers to the floor.

When we closed our eyes

that year we all saw the same

fecund emptiness staring

back, imagined all we could

hammer our bodies into by way

of pure repetition: sprinting

to the bodega for Peanut Chews

before the cheese bus could leave

us behind, toting little

brothers all the way up

past the third flight

with no break for breath,

jumping rope with the girls by

the hydrant by the hardware

store at least once a week,

two-pound silver bricks

strapped to each leg,

tucked as if contraband

or some secret knowledge

into the lips of our lucky

socks, all that kept us

from drowning.