silk shorts tall sports by Sheila E Murphy

Lorraine, you know Lorraine,
she dives onto the woodsmooth platter of a floor
and makes it hers. She is the one
whom the announcers shore up
into monologic plaintext
when the simmer of the shortlist dims
and skeins of nothing happen.
Shadowy, endowed, imported,
and a minced invasion all her own
of everything she has and is and will be
in our eyes. Our eyes are fastened on Lorraine,
even rain will not be dulled beneath
the glimmer of Lorraine.
She makes the sport worth watching, hatching mid-syllabic.
If I were to have invented music
I would have done it with the blessing of
Lorraine. I would have turned tunetables
up to snuff. I would have watched her paint invisibly
that hoped-for floor.
I would have divaned out of mood I'm in right now
to watch and listen to her squeak percussion,
do its magic on the skittery longwide floor.
The crowd would be a squealing spree for her,
and I would document the score. The score,
the warbling mint noise of the core
of what plays into this,
the shoreline of the sport,
the whole palatial spree of inner court




Sheila's latest book is The Case of the Lost Objective (Case) from Otoliths Press (2007).