The Invention of Tennis

Estonian cheeks soak-in the “DUTCH DREAMS
                                                    HOMEMADE ICE CREAM,”
                                       sign says,
As we sit on caged stones,
Knee-highs and ball ankles,
And two death-by-chocolate cones,
Looking to each other 
                                       through brown
                                       plastic
                                       frames.

Bucktoothed video artists
                                       approach on
                                       tiptoes,
Snap in mid-sentence,
Leave with smug smiles,

And brother, tennis came on like a trick,
Like the way I knew to shoo
                                       bees from
                                       your back
Without ever knowing.

And brother,
                                       our mother,
Didn’t have those same laughing Japanese eyes
                                       that you wear,
And stare with like searchlights shooting out,
                                       like tennis balls,
On the court where we bounce,
                                       like we walk
(With cellphones calling up dads, limbs flailing),
                                       like we point,
With those same rackets,
At the woman dressed all in brown.
We are assholes, real jerks,
                                        and bastards.

That same woman carries a plastic bag,
Which sags and then tears,

And brown liquid drizzles out in shaky circles behind her,
And brother, we follow her trail,
Our feet careful not to wander from the moving line
That she creates,
Like the “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DARLING” on a chocolate cake.

And between the lines it turns into a charm,
We swing at worn tennis balls,
The way your mouth looks like a red apple
When you say that red apples will cure me
                                         from the M.S.G.,
                                         wandering
                                         mid-bloodstream,
And the twenty-foot weeds
Meant to grow like trees,
Meant to discourage moths,
And after seven years just drop,

Like how at night, we drop our rackets
To swat the ball with bare hands,
We play on glassy courts, like bathtubs,
                                         calling interference,
                                         calling crazy bounce.

And brother, these are mother’s eyeglasses I wear,
And her red rain boots and pink terry cloth one-piece,
While you’ve got your dad’s
tennis sweater tied around your neck,
                                        then waist,
And soon you’ve got your head into it.

Because brother, it’s getting chilly, and the trees 
                                        are turning,
And our arms keep turning,
And I keep serving the ball
                                        out of bounds,
And the more I watch you hustle
The more I’m turning,
Into our same mother,
And the more this tennis is turning into a sport.

—AMY GAIZAUSKAS

(Originally published summer, 2006.)