by Catherine Chandler
The baseball cards, the paper route—
I never had them. Wished I did.
The altar boy, the Eagle Scout—
I never was one. God forbid
I beg to join the sandlot game!
Their raucous jeers were less about
a gangling girl whose swing was lame,
than that a girl might strike them out.
I thought I’d won them over when
I spat and cussed and climbed a tree;
but nothing swayed these “supermen”
who feared green kryptonite in me.
So summer ended, and the next.
By then we all were oversexed.
Catherine Chandler studied modern languages as an undergraduate and holds an M.A. in Education from McGill University, where she teaches Spanish in the Department of Translation Studies. She also manages a government-sponsored project in the Faculty of Arts. Her poems and translations have been published or are forthcoming in SPSM&H (Amelia), The Lyric, Blue Unicorn, and other journals and anthologies. She was born in New York, raised in Pennsylvania, and now lives in St. Lazare, a rural town in Quebec, Canada.