The coliseum’s more variegated than a cherry-
tomato burrito bowl, peony patch, or corn salsa.
A hail mary isn’t a performance of prayer but
of desperation. Every down is choreographed.
The big knights kneel, rise in swan ballet with
the snap, then race or wrastle. Each spiral arcs
into a flying relevé. As tackling starts, helmets
sparkle with flames of fire-breathing dragons.
Grip my midriff. Fling me in an arcing spiral
over the midday sun into the outstretched arms
of the fastest chevalier. Spin me on the grass,
squib me snout-over-loin across the mascot’s
red-bird face. Gangpile on my belly. Punt me
into the guacamole of gringo jumping beans.
