TEEING OFF
by Cathryn Cofell
She tells me to pick up golf, as if telling me
to pick up milk
on
the way home or a song where she left off.
She says
the
competitor in me will thrill when the club connects to the ball
like
a bone to the socket and the rocket takes off, soars into blue
like
a great blue heron and lands exactly where it should land,
for
one second only me and that ball and I have kicked its ass.
I remind her of the last time in my car, how I
almost
killed us juggling the stick, phone, latte and
a need
to speak often with my hands, question why she
believes I could manage that multitude of
in-sync
movements. Those tiny balls. Standing still.
Silence.
She
appeals to my heart, the brisk walks and the heft of a bag
that
never feels heavy on a good day, the immaculate beauty
of
the green, how on a clear Sunday with the sun cresting
and
the last dew steaming she can almost see god.
I tell her that’s what churches or children
are for,
and cost about the same, and that simply
banging
my head against a wall would burn 150 calories
an hour which I already do on a frequent
basis.
She
cajoles the career woman in me, insists golf will make me a champ
in
the game of schmooze, adds there is no other sport worthy of my
intelligence,
my fashion sense, my utter determination to accomplish
the
manliest of deeds.
She knows I would wrestle mud eels if a man
suggested
it wasn’t my place, but I am over 40, should
be beyond that.
I say honey, I am a poet first (well, 3rd
or 4th after the son
and husband and 60 hour job and the
chores). Maybe
if there were a short course, or if I could
write and dust
at the same time. Better yet, she should pick up poetry,
fill her holes with words.
This
is where it always ends. Poetry scares
the hell out of people,
even
more than golf. This is where it always
begins, friends wanting
each
other to be each other, to become someone we’re not because
isn’t
that what women do, fill our lives with purpose after purpose
with
no passion, smile and nod, say yes when we really mean no?
~
first published in Main
Street Rag
