You walk up to the park and there’s one Chinese guy

running the court, directing traffic, crossing over
his defender and dropping him. He jumps a pass
because he knows who’s scared to shoot.
He pushes the pace, and what seems like chaos
is just speed, what seems like noise is song: choir
of collision, got-game gospel, heat-check harmony, melodies
that soar. You blink and he’s at the rim.
You hear damn and ooo, but mostly sounds
that can’t be spelled—before realizing you gasped too. 
Our language is violent: beast, steal, charge,
cut, hack, bury. Our country was built by these
migrant sons accustomed to sweat, these great-
grandchildren of slaves, those who grind and rebound
and reach, and him with the crossover
like a golden spike. A black court with white lines
to remind us what’s worth what. He jabs, steps back,
doesn’t even watch as his shot drops. That’s 20,
so you tie your laces. His shadow flickers by, his lava
orange Kobes barely making a sound. Does it surprise you
that he talks the most trash? That his parents’ names
are Sharpied on his soles? That opponents call him
shifty? That he can dunk but never does? That
was game—you got next.

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Andy Chen was born and raised in New Jersey. The recipient of a Pushcart Prize and fellowships from Kundiman and the Bogliasco Foundation, he holds an MFA from Washington University in St. Louis. He is the 2024 winner of the Ploughshares Emerging Writer’s Contest, and his poems appear in Ploughshares, New England Review, The Offing, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. He teaches at John Burroughs School in St. Louis. To read more, visit heyandychen.com.