Instead of ice, espresso jitters in my veins.
My heart’s unsteady on its skis. My nerves
are "shivery pudding"—Mom’s much-too-
autobiographic name for Jello. All her fears
slopped into me: A copperhead might
bite me in the woods. An armored truck
might run me down. A sallow man in a black
trenchcoat might grab me in a toilet stall,
and do she didn’t know quite what. I can’t
imagine striding through the world, convinced
I’ll get the job, and send the mugger
to Emergency—sure the girl will sleep
with me, and tell her friends how great it was!
Heaven’s not gold harps, or fluttering
angel wings, not jasmine-breezes and houris.
Heaven’s a World Championship game at 23.
He’s made the fall-away jump shot to tie
the score. He’s made the steal, the dribble-drive,
