Séance at Tennis, by Dana Goodyear

I play with an old boyfriend, to tease you out.
In white shorts that you’ve never seen before.
You storm-wind, panic in the tree.
Rattling like the genius
like the jealous man.
Making it impossible to hit.
So nothing clears the net.
An inside joke, my comingback love:
He can’t return, but you can?

After an hour, the court is swept, and reassumes
the waiting face of the bereft. But you-
the sky turns blue with your held breath.