Warriors

The distance between January & June is monumental.
Just ask my father in winter watching Steph Curry
through his worst shooting slump. Sitting up in bed
in my brother’s old bedroom, his voice is still

his voice. He doesn’t look great. I offer legit
but defensive explanations: Draymond is out injured
& PT will restore strength to his legs, arms, tongue.
I just want everyone to be healthy at the same time.

So they perform their best as a unit. When I return
in June for the final run, there’s new geography
& modes of language. He’s not interested in interesting things.
Even Aaron Judge fails to quicken his blue blood.

Bedtime is quarter to nine because the job takes nearly an hour.
Sometimes he ingests bits of the game from his hospital bed
in the dining room. Do you want juice? A forty-five degree
thumbs up & I get the sippy cup. When we lose game three,

he asks, did they win? I want to say yes so badly.
To answer his whisper of broken breath with plumes of uplift.
But this June basketball is busted. When they win game four
we rewatch the final minutes reflected in the only body part

fully controlled. Unfathomable power in words.
As I go he goes. I want to give joy’s fragment peace.
So badly, I want to give one more piece of good news.
To prove I’m going to be okay. That his belief is correct.

Like my belief in Steph was correct. One more good thing.
Like how I’m going to be okay as a writer in a breaking world.
A golden gift to take away. Wasn’t he great, 30?
His eyes turn. Then his thumb. I did not exaggerate.

Matthew Isaac Sobin’s first book was the science fiction novella, The Last Machine in the Solar System. His poems are in or forthcoming from The Lumiere Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Midway Journal, Orange Blossom Review, Does It Have Pockets, MAYDAY Magazine, and The Hooghly Review. He received an MFA from California College of the Arts. You may find him selling books at Books on B in Hayward, California. @WriterMattIsaac https://linktr.ee/matthewisaacsobin