Action

            The ball ricocheted off of the palms of her hands before she steadied herself to take a shot. Gripping it, she launched it toward the hoop. Her hands flew in opposite directions as her elbows straightened, and the ball followed a narrow arc up toward the hoop. Clanging off of the back of the rim, it caught a lucky second bounce and slid through the net. Her next foul shots in the first half of the intramural game followed in the same fashion.

            Leading her team in points, she tried trick plays and silly maneuvers as they were ahead by 21. She sent a bounce pass behind her as she ran diagonally cross court to the hoop during a fastbreak, and her body tumbled across the paint until she knocked into the wall. Within seconds, officials and players were at her side, prodding her body parts.

            “Don’t touch IITTTTT!” she shrilled from the bottom of the pile. Three bodies bounced up and scooted to the bench. Lying on her back, she rolled from side to side clutching her knee to her chest like I had seen her hold her teddy bear so many nights. Her eyes squinted shut, eyebrows furrowed; she braced for more pain as she reached up for a helping hand. “Just stay still so I can grab you – don’t touch meee!” she squeaked, loud enough for the entire court to hear. After pulling herself up, she stood on one foot like a flamingo standing in a pond, trying to find her balance. One boy offered his arm at her side and she shoved it away. As she hopped to the sideline, I shrugged at her and rounded up my team to continue the game.

Barcelona

Palau Nacional, Barcelona

     She skips ever other step as she rushes to the top of the mountain of stairs that lead to El Museo Nacional d'Art de Catalunya. A drop of sweat trickles off of her nose and she whisks it away with the back of her left hand.

     "Jenna," her mother calls, 15 steps below her. "Would you slow down?"

     A gasp escapes from inside of Jenna, as she looks over the city while standing on a stone railing. Her mother and 5-year-old brother trek up the steps, hand in hand.

     "Jenna," her mother says. "You could just wait one minute. My goodness you're acting like you're 6 years old again, running away from us at Disney."

     The words bounce off of the 16-year-old girl, like a ball on a court. She takes in the Spanish sun as she gazes toward the Mediterranean Sea. Her father soon joins the family at Jenna's perch, after completing the climb up the steps.

     "Sorry hun," he says. "I had to get a few more shots on the way up. The view is great."

     Jenna's mother takes the camera from his hand, letting go of Derek's hand.

     "She's your daughter, that's for sure," her mother replies. "No matter what you say."

     Her father laughs and picks up the little boy.

     "What do you say we get a picture of the two of you kids, with the water in the background?" her father suggests.

     "Daaad --" Jenna starts.

     "Jenna, don't start this, please," her mother raises her voice slightly. "It's just a picture, anyway I don't see what the problem is. Now come down from there, sit over here with him."

     She points to a bench 10 feet away.

     "Yeah Wennah!" Derek shouts as he skips over to the bench.

     "Derek," Jenna growls. "It's Jen-nah, for the last time!"

     Jenna hops down from the railing and turns to her mother.

     "I don't have a problem taking a picture, Mom, but I do have a problem with him. He's constantly pulling my hair or messing my room up or --"

     "Not now Jenna, come on," her father interrupts. "We're on a family vacation right now. Please just go over there and stand with --"

     "DEREK!" her mother screeches , running toward the bench.

     Jenna's body snaps around 180 degrees in the direction of the scream, in time to see her brother's face panicked face as his right hand slips off of a stone railing, and his body disappear into the bushes on the mountain side.

Barcelona

El Born, Barcelona

Stretching the Allegories

Juliao Sarmento, "Stretching the Allegories"

enxoval.weblog.com.pt

Nightfall

Rolling from the ground like a herd of buffalo
kicking up deep purple cloud dust
against the faint yellow sky of a winter sunset.

"Mama," the child pleaded, "vas a estar en casa esta noche?"
Lipstick, perfume, hairspray all tucked into her clutch.
"Una besa mas," she bids her daughter farewell.

Clack clack clack on the cobblestone street.
As she takes her place on the roadside,
the last of the herd of clouds rumbles into the night sky.

The Moon and the Yew Tree

 This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.

The tree of the mind are black. The light is blue.

The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,

Prickling my ankles and murmuring their humility.

Fumy, spirituous mists inhabit this place

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,

White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet

With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky - 

Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.

At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.

The eyes life after it and find the moon.

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

How I would like to believe in tenderness -

The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,

Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering

Blue and mystical over the face of stars.

Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,

Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,

Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.

The moon sees nothing of this, She is bald and wild.

And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

-Sylvia Plath

The Break of Day

Flying in the clean, crisp air, do you think they even notice?
Hundreds of feet above the commotion -
     the everyday talk of laity and clergy - 
Do they even notice what's going on below?

An old man steps onto a balcony, greeting a crowd
     larger than the country in which he lives.
Thousands pile in for a glimpse of the white haired man
     with hopes that their faith with be validated.

As they soar through the cloud dusting in the sky,
    do the countries' borders matter to them?
Do they stand out to others, or can they distinguish
   others from themselves?

What is it like to be a Vatican City pigeon?

St. Paul's Cathedral Dome

The view from the top
    is foggy and grey because
the buildings and buses
    are dusted with rain drops.
The view from the top
    goes on for miles because
this dome balcony
    is the tallest in the city.
The view from the top
    reveals city secrets because
nothing can hide
    from the eyes of God.


Building after building    it stretches for miles,
      concrete only interrupted
by one large snaking river.


The gridded city is home to millions of strangers
      who might as well be plastic figures
living on the grid of a young boy's lego board.