Cheerleaders

They cartwheel, high-kick, hair-flick on, all sing-song,

all pom-poms, exclamation marks at the end

of whatever their hands are saying. They’re all angles,

uniformed as superheroes, in their star-spangled

skirts, their belly buttons. They drop into a huddle

to Ra-ra-ra, make their bodies jumping stars,

now doing the splits, now falling to their knees,

or touching cowboy boot toes to their cheeks.

Their synchronised smiles say nothing can be wrong.

A final, faultless somersault and they’re gone.

In the bleachers, we sit on. A tinny tannoy. Wind

plays the tuning forks at either end of the pitch.

We make ourselves bigger with giant foam hands.

Now, here come the men with their metal helmets,

their little ball, their protective shoulder pads.