Drive
We are two copper spoons
beneath the blanket.
I am listening to my wife’s
gentle breaths.
She is finally relaxed
after a long night of wrestling
in her sleep.
My hand is on her thigh
but I am thinking about
the perfect drive I hit
on number five at Southwind,
and the seven iron to the edge
of the green.
I replay the birdie putt trickling in
to the hole over and over again.
It could be on the golf channel
except there’s no roaring crowd,
no exuberant fan screaming,
“get in the hole!”
no English accent whispering
into a microphone
about the significance of the shot,
how my steady play today
finally reflects my potential,
my work ethic, my readiness
for the moment.
She shifts her weight, the air between
our hips disappears.
I close my eyes.
I am no longer watching the flight
of the ball. I am the ball in flight.
I have been well struck. I am moving
with intention toward the earth.
This is not a game.
And it’s us doing all the whispering.
Notes:
This poem is part of the folio “Frank X Walker: Kinfolk.” Read the rest of the folio in the January/February 2026 issue of Poetry.
Source: Poetry (January/February 2026)