Kings Game

This poem was first published in the now-defunct FORTH Magazine in June 2016.

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Kings Game

The man in the next seat is drinking vodka with a twist of lemon. He keeps putting his hand on my shoulder to tell me about his daughter, light of all lights, his darling sweet princess, and he says she is my age and will never leave him like his wife did, and he says she doesn’t understand hockey the way I do. Of course, all I want is to drink my beer in peace, watch the captain wrap the puck around the net for a hatty, four rows from the glass, and of course all I want is to stumble into the night, high on winning, become one with the sea of men in red sweaters—who will not linger on my breasts like hungry dogs or jeer at the hot girls shoveling ice or tell me I can’t like hockey; who will not wolf-whistle or shout fuck you lady in parking lots, who won’t ask where my boyfriend is or try to explain the icing call; who won’t crowd us in with their big shoulders at the concourse bar to breathe their nacho breath on our faces as the intermission’s ending, never satisfied with our answers, whispering sweetheart, baby, bitch-