by Natalie Staples

My father taught me to play defense.
Like watching men on the street,
I map the distance to keep.

I saw the ball coming down the field
before it left the striker’s cleats,
like watching men on the street.

A chest will lean right to move left.
Track the body not the feet;
I map the distance to keep.

At half-time we ate orange slices,
tore riblets of fruit with our teeth—
like watching men on the street.

My father whispered: put your body
between the striker and the goalie.
I map the distance to keep.

He stormed the field in his head
as the silver sphere flew into the corner.
Like watching men on the street:

goalie alone at the net, post unfriendly,
and the net taking its fish, fresh scales in its fist.
I map the distance to keep.

Once at the beach, too far into the tide,
I couldn’t read the wave’s curled undertow,
like watching men on the street.

Once the silver dance of studs dazzled me
away. As if vigilance could hold back a wave,
like watching men on the street.
I map the distance to keep.

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by Natalie Staples

Allure leather, sequin blue tube top,
velvet whimsy 115 shoes,
I let my heart go where it wants:
the dizzy twirl of the rack
spinning, how we’d flip through blue
mining for the glint of power.

I miss the ease of climbing stairs to your door.
You aren’t here to tell me the right fit—
good gold heel with the violet clutch,
lipstick print nightgown, the red dress on sale
with a tire-like stain. What lasts after dust.
This is not our mad rush, J.Crew to H&M,
Forever 21’s slit dress, how I learned,
began to learn, about beauty, lace at my torso.

Sky blue with gold buttons, a pair
of steel bones, I find a bustier: what we’d wear
in our girls’ apartment. How we gathered:
love and a flat iron in your hand,
what is a face mask? Does this go?
Eyeshadow and glitter flickered on the carpet.
You brushed my face with quiet attention.
We make do with borrowed things,
holding their shine on our cheekbones.

The heart flies to delicacy like this.
Friends staring into a vanity mirror
or black velvet bows, those whimsy shoes,
how we fall in a dark twister:
this daze of color and cool texture:
where wind knocks thick glass,
windows rattle in their frames,
and a hard blast lifts the house,
clear off the foundation to its own wild design.

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