closed its doors. In the fifth grade, defense

was still the weakest part of my game,

so hit by a hard foul of laughter

I ignored my heart’s referee,

looked at Jaime Lorde and then down

at the floor and said, I hate these shoes.

I hate them. They’re just the stupid ones

I’m wearing until my good ones

come in the mail.

And maybe it was something about knowing

it wouldn’t be the first time I’d deny loving

something I loved, but when the coach

blew the whistle, I ran in my plastic shoes

like it was 1912

and I was gonna get to the Titanic

in time, like I was gonna make my town

famous for sinking nothing

but baskets at the buzzer.

I ran like everyone but me

had something dead on their feet

and kept running that fast

for the next eight years, all the way

to the state championship

in a city so big

it had a mall, and I cut down

the net with my smile just like Isiah’s

and carried the first gold ball

back to the hands of a town

whose calluses for that entire night

disappeared. And the next week

in the mail, I got a letter from the college

I had dreamed of playing ball at ever since

the ball had been bigger than me,

and because I knew I wasn’t allowed

to spend four years

studying only my jump shot,

I said, I guess I’ll learn

to write some poems

while I’m here.

SEE THIS THROUGH

Opening to Andrea’s live show “Right Now, I Love You Forever”

San Francisco—so many years ago the queers could still afford

to live there—I was in a woman’s bed, wrapped up in her sheets,

when she stood naked on top of the mattress and began to peel

the glow-in-the-dark stars off the ceiling, pressing constellations

all over her skin. Cassiopeia on her collarbone. Orion on her wrist.

She said, I could be your universe—and I made my wish.

But it didn’t come true.

My therapist, who I can never go a day without

quoting, has a theory about love. She says often we are believing

a lie when we believe time is what helps us see each other more

clearly. Says to consider the opposite might be true. Consider

the beginning might actually be when our hearts have perfect vision.

Remember when she left her red sock

in your white laundry and you knew

you’d never stop blushing?

Remember when her laughter was a disco ball

and everything around her sparkled—

especially you.

Remember when you could find no flaws,

just quirks you would have worn

on a charm bracelet.

How you told her you were terrified

of loud noises and she snuck the balloons out

of every birthday party you went to.

You adored that she ate doughnuts

for every breakfast, called naps snoozers, built

her countertops from old chess boards.

You watched her fold your horoscope

into a paper airplane you hoped