I learned to fall in love at a young age
with everything capable of breaking.
But a color blind child didn’t know anything
but static, square box and black fuzz.
That television could barely stand on Grandma’s
kitchen table, drunk off the volume
or the scent of her burning bagels, I don’t know.
I turned the knob to fix the colours of Bills jerseys,
wanting that in-the-stadium feeling, not last section seats
without binoculars. Grandma in the background buttering
what I’d later throw at the wall on fourth and inches
but they couldn’t convert. Suicide squeezes for the scoreboard.
Soon I’d know real disaster- Grandma’s eyes would give
out and she couldn’t formulate an image of me,
now twenty-four, wearing jerseys too small on those
Sundays I hide from what I’ve taught myself is unbearable-
a world made for punching walls since I can’t punch
those who claim to protect her, since I can’t punch everyone
who thinks I don’t know how to escape from anything.
I’ve tried saying I’ll believe in God for a second in case
it helps, but ended up settling on the sweet torture
of that Buffalo 1991 Super Bowl loss. I trained myself
that night to fixate on footballs instead of faces,
became selfish and fell asleep, fists clenched
over the kitchen table until Grandma carried
me to bed after gently prying them apart,
whispering there’s always next year.