She was tall, so basketball
was the game above it all
in her repertoire of sport.
Baseball and softball batted
against her logical cognition.
The physics of a long stick
to hit a solid orb didn’t stick
with her imagination.
That was dissonance
on a diamond of sand.
Standing at the free throw line
in the mornings of summertime,
when no one was looking on,
she aimed far above the rim
to become calm in the Zen
of getting the ball in the basket
with the swoosh of the net
collecting the winds of rebounds.
A wind-up for what was to come.
Tossing baskets from the sidelines,
Traveling in dribbles of solo throws
brought peace to the girl
at the boundary of maturing.
And then the boy with the blue-hooded shirt
came to join her at the basketball court.
They threw the ball one-on-one, taking turns.
The brush of his wrist on the back of her hand
gave her another reason for the game,
for shooting hoops at summer’s end
on the school grounds.
Her aim shifted as she grew taller.
Extended her eye to a new sight line
while free throwing into the next season.

Cynthia Dorfman is a poet who writes between Maryland and Wisconsin, depending on the season. She grew up before Title IX, so she's participated primarily from the sidelines. However, she did win a basketball free throw contest in the 8th grade. Her poems have appeared in the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets 2025 Calendar, A Catalog of Small Machines, Moss Piglet, and on the Viewless Wings Podcast.