As we untangle I sweep spent chalk from your face,
smooth the dirt, lay again the white lines of our battlefield.
You had led off with speed, introduced power early on,
closed with pitching that overpowered me.

Now, spent, I can pick the point at which we lost the game.
It was early on, third inning, two men on, my switch-
hitting third baseman striding confidently to the plate.
He had prevailed before, and over stiffer competition.

You countered with a bullpen move. From wiley thumber
to pea shooter in the swift blink of a phone call.
And, like a couple who define their relationship through
the dynamics of power, failing to recognize the ebb and flow

of interpersonal intercourse, not knowing that dominance
need not dictate course of action, so did we fail to understand
that when this time my good hitting overcame your good pitching,
it didn’t mean the game was over. There were still innings

to be played, home runs to be hit, errors to be made.
Unfortunate that our ballfield became bedroom,
our love-in-potential articulated through base need.
Now I can only wish that I had struck out.