SANDY HIORTDAHL // Ahab's Day

Ahab's Day

You, they said
I was ten, a
one-legged girl
new to town.

What.
You come here, 
they said
the asphalt hot,
sticky smells of tar
and dog poop
glints of green and yellow
from the stained glass
church windows, 
all empty now on 
a Thursday in 
May.

Is it wood?
They were bigger
than me, 
taller with big teeth
snarling as they 
looked at the
panted leg.

Yeah.
Though it was plastic,
no matter, nothing
to them.

Call her Ahab,
one said, but 
so what, so what, 
I was waiting as usual 
for a ride, and they were
nothing to me.
Held out the hockey stick,
Do you play. 
No. 

Stand here.
She pointed between two 
moved trash cans 
that smelled of car oil 
and old McDonalds bags.

They held the stick
flat, like a sword for me,
chins tucked in, 
asking with their eyes, 
pointing.

I took it, the wood to me
like a tobacco stick from 
back home, where life
made more sense 
than here, 
the pale cream colored 
blade scratched, etched
from many church lot
afternoons.

The tallest girl grinned:
Lead with the peg-leg, 
keep your good one back, 
push with the stick--
hit ‘em hard on the shins: 
never back down, 
and, whatever you do,
don’t let the ball past 
this line.

Ahab stuck,
as a name: I played hard, 
heard the other team’s sticks 
slap against the plastic, felt 
the jarring, but no pain, 
bared my teeth at them, 
sent the red ball a dozen yards
the other way, 
then cracked their shins
for good measure.

---

Sandy Hiortdahl is a recipient of the Sophie Kerr Prize and has an M.F.A. from George Mason University and a Ph.D. from The Catholic University of America. Her work is forthcoming this year in Punchnel’s and Barely South Review, among others. 

www.sandyhiortdahl.com