To kick something and chase it down, to pursue a soccer ball as if it were a leather gazelle, to place your palms on your thighs as you trap breath and exhale seeps
With your feet, to conscript your hips and shoulders, to say I can blow past this cretin because that will put me in the box, and in that holy-rotten box I got a shot.
To bear down on the buoyant toy boulder, to confine its ramble with the sole of your foot, to juke some goon that has ideas of their own for the #4 for pitch between your feet, to trip over an
Intersection of ankles and yet through bumble advance past their ankleclot, past their defensive convergence, past their Maginot line, past their 38th parallel, past their Green Zone
And into that box—the goalie habitat—which is to indoor soccer a church of fanatical chagrin through which none shall pass, none shall dribble, none shall heel it in, none shall bend it
Because the sanctity of that box is all we cherish—the fact that it is inviolable—and when breached, we become ominous doves, trickles of blood, and fierce aerobic pillars.
A Spanglish blog dedicated to the works, ruminations, and mongrel pyrotechnics of Yago S. Cura, an Argentine-American poet, translator, publisher & futbol cretin. Yago publishes Hinchas de Poesia, an online literary journal, & is the sole proprietor of Hinchas Press.