baseball game

you can play gender all by yourself
if you have saved up enough baseball
to get you through the dark.
i run my fingers along the stitches.
the sweet grin of a hip bone. 
when i took myself apart the doctor asked,
"would you like to play baseball?"
it was an operating room. we were
in america which is to say we were
no where & everywhere. if i can help it
i try to be in america as little as possible.
i am not talking about the soil
i am talking about the idea. we would go
to the minor league games. watch men
strike out. watch fathers eating their sons' heads
like candied apples. someone is paying
for the dollar hot dog. someone 
is paying for the special seats
close to the plate. watch the gender come
right through the strike zone.
i used to play by which i mean i used to
try to be part of this country.
used to be a pretending creature.
to be seen is not always to be loved.
the first time someone gendered me right
it was at a baseball game. i was in a skirt
& still an usher in the bleachers said,
"young man." thank you thank you
for reminding me that baseball has little to do
with us & everything to do with 
an ache. my father corrected him & 
i focused on trying to catch a foul ball.
i knew each one was a heart i could use.
the escaping skin monster. 
i never did. instead, i watched & waited.
the field got farther & farther away.
the stadium light came up. summer night.
no players left. just me & whatever
body i have left. i carry it
like a bat. swing at moths. four of
my shadow, each for the home team.
tell me we can be something else. 
the doctor where the umpire should be.
i know i am up to bat. i know the game
is already over. there is no home run.
there is no pitcher. there is no gender
but the houses we fall asleep in. 
i wake my father up. i was just his nightmares.
everything is gone. we sleep in a field
of berries where 
the pitcher's mound used to be.