His teeth will be a gate, his eye an arrow, and his wood leg
will have holes bored in to put out his cigarettes, but
be not afraid—I’ll make you the fire, I’ll make you
the hole, home plate will be big as a table.
The mound will say: there’s nothing for you here, the plate will say:
go back where you came from. Be not afraid.
This arm will be a branch, wrist a rubber band, hand an anvil.
And come Sunday, the preacher will tell you all about David,
how his one rock knocked down the baddest man in the land,
and you will be a rock and a bird and the preacher will tell
how God held this round world in his hand, and made the oceans,
and the beasts and fish, and man, and how man made the strike zone
and named the Bee Ball, the Jump Ball, the Bat Dodger, and God
will make it all crumble and boil, and the stars
will dance through the fire like Midnight Riders,
and the world will get small as a peach, the park small as a feather.
And you’ll be small as an atom, small as a speck, small as
the smallest hole in your leather, and no-one will hit you.
— “Seventh Inning Sermon” by Chiyuma Elliott