When I was six, we would play badminton
together but indoors in our flat's living room—
so our rackets would often kiss the walls with
each smash, leaving behind luminous streaks
of blue sky, to Mom's annoyance and hence
your amusement. At the end of each game,
you would carry my giggling self with racket
and all, dispensing the load onto the sofa, until

now you are six times thirteen, and it's your
turn to be carried from bed to chair, ever since
the day you took a slow drop shot. My turn
to serve. It's a long rally ahead. You're wearing
the blue sky; each night a match against your
own body. How easily a shuttlecock life hurtles.
I wait to hear if it's clear. Some nights I dream
the game resets; points don't matter. Love all.