Late Season Slump He's now aware of every crack in the sidewalk of his game: the bat's not cocked back too far, the grip's not too tight, stance not too tense — after years in the minors he should know. Still in the game, he lately thinks, Just no good pitch to crush . Still, in the box, he waits to pound a ball out of the park. When he swings, his eyes close, hips drift, breath holds. The lucky gold cross his old man gave him flips wildly forward on its chain. Follow-through, follow-through — that's all he hears. Sure enough, the ball squibbles back toward the mound. I'm done. He doesn't bother to run the play out. As he looks up, his arms extend — face numb, legs cold-stiff. Jesus, what now. Robert Manaster 's poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Birmingham Poetry Review , Image , Maine Review , Into the Void , and Spillway . His co-translation of Ronny Someck's The Milk Underground was awarded the Cliff Becker Book Prize in Translat...
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.