The slouching cheerleader dangles
her mother’s Birkenstock
from the end of her foot.
Boredom is a sign of defeat,
Coach says. Coach would know,
she smells like the pink wine
she sucks out of the sports bottle
she keeps in the cup holder
of her PT Cruiser, and goes out
into the hallway 6 times a day
to text her ex-husband.
What does she know about
victory, what does she know
about watching a sister
shrivel up and blow away
in an oxygen tent, or a father
who needs a fistful of pills
just to keep the voices at bay.
Or maybe she does. The sandal
falls, clatters on the gym floor,
Coach’s knife face swings out
then softens, watching the girl try
to scoop it up and slip it on
without anyone noticing,
her hands shaking like branches
in the wind that comes over the lake.