Ode to Balls

Like snowflakes,

no two are alike.

My palm embraces the soft flesh,

the man-kiwis, love-apples, chestnuts,

ornaments of his self,

jewels, plums, play-pens.

They lie in my hand

like a stunned treefrog,

alive but lifeless.

I think of those meditation balls

sold at new age hippy stores,

I think of the pearls

my mom gave me,

of Newton's Balls,

a pendulum,

of chicken skin

plucked clean of feathers.

I think about twelve generations

of his ancestors and their balls,

and how similar or dissimilar

they must be.

I cradle them like a new mom

nursing her infant.

I hold his balls,

and I feel religious,

I feel divine, balancing

planets in my hand.

I hold his balls

and I think of the song

about God,

He's got the whole world

in his hands, he's got the whole

wide world in his hands.

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