Eleven runs behind, rugged
mothers pillory the ump
for low, dusty strikes.
Their pitcher’s half a foot taller,
hurling brimstone to the only girl
in armor on the diamond.
Pre-teen cleats petrify,
seven ponytails swing
a dark assent at each coup de grace.
When we score a lone run, she scowls,
a feudal lord ready to burn
a village over a poached deer.
Maximilian Heinegg’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming at The Cortland Review, December, Crab Creek, and Columbia Poetry Review, among others.