^{after Pedro Pietri}

We were      nocturnal players, 
Bats in ball,      & ever since Don Pedro said 
There are Puerto Ricans      on the moon 
The night is      my cousin      & the clustered stars 
My cousin      & Saturn’s little ring of smoke      my second cousin 
Though not the same ring      as a freshly snapped Medalla bottle      which
My abuelo      also named Pedro      apparently liked too much 
But back to the moon      the first rock      dollop of sugar  
& slinging hoop in the dark      which we learned was a game
      of approximation
Less math      more muscle memory      less Mozart      more Machito 
Like descarga      more riff      more wrist. 
We set our eyes      on not seeing      but feeling a thing through, indeed
From elbow to hip      wherever the orange lip might lead

Copyright © 2022 by Denice Frohman. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 6, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

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“This poem is part of a series of basketball sonnets I’ve been working on. Growing up a hooper, what began as a recollection of a childhood memory became a meditation on Diasporican identity and embodied knowledge. I wanted to evoke a sense of possibility against a historical backdrop of uncertainty. A few summers ago at a writing residency, I started to think of the sonnet as a basketball court—the last two lines of the Shakespearean sonnet as the final two steps of a layup. The game has taught me so much about the geography of my own body and how to find meaning even in the most fragmented, ambiguous spaces.”
—Denice Frohman