Michael Phelps punches your mother
in the face, and you admire his technique.
It happens in the kitchen. You search for silverware
to make a scale. Two forks a ten. A corkscrew eight.
All spoons are decimals.  Michael’s a good guy
you think. You tell your friends how he left a bruise:
red, white and blue. At dinner that night,
in front of the TV, your mother puts frozen peas
on her eye. You tell her: Careful Ma,
you’ll miss the long jump
. She takes the peas down

and lets them chill in her lap.