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Poems for Peguero

The Mariners have DFA'd Carlos Peguero. This seems like a moment worthy of commemoration. Accordingly, several staff members have written poems on the subject. Behold!

Leon Halip

Logan Davis

The pitcher rears way back,

uncoils - the ball speeds forwards -

swing / miss


He's tried so hard. Spent hours in the cage.

He knows improvement doesn't come for free.

swing / hit / swing / hit / swing


But nothing seems to help. The starts are few and far between,

and filled with whiffs as pitches dart / dip /  dive to just outside.

swing / miss / swing / miss / swing / miss / out


On some good days, he gets a break - a lack of break -  and impact feels so right.

This time he's got it, fixed it. In his future no more K's, just contact left.

then: swing / no / fuck / miss


A triple slash of bad / worse / hope?, he knows, will never work.

But all his massive strength can't break the infinite replay:

swing / please, this time, please just / miss


He sees the phone call coming months away.

Still, he labors - dreams of games at home:

crowd / pitch / swing / hit!


No more. The message comes.

"I'm sorry, but:" dream gone.

swing. / miss.


He's immensely talented, he knows.

There are only a hundred outfielders in the major leagues. He knows.

He's one of the very best baseball players in the entire world.

He knows.

But if any of that's supposed to make him feel better…


swing / miss


Jesse Knutson

Oh Lumbering Manchild

They never thought you could

Oh Lumbering Manchild

You killed baseballs real good


Ashley Varela

It's not the missed pitches

The untapped power, the lack of grace

The plump minor league stats that shriveled on a major league stage

That we objected to, Carlos --

It's your wife.


Patrick Dubuque

the matador


sound swimming through pink spanish sky

the roar, the snap of fabric, the flash of red

the pause

the irresistible moan of

a single voice

spread thin like

warm margarine.


in full regalia, threads stung with spotlight

a human gambler's fallacy

a single, early taste of perfection

numbers, vectors,


in perfect resonance.


to feel that again.

nothing compares,

not sweet-smelling afternoons

or pretty girls

drinking coffee

or singles the other way.


to feel perfect, to feel strong.

and in waiting for that moment

to die

a thousand times

a flash of red

under a pink spanish sky.


Matthew Ellis



i never loved you.

but in a way

i did