These poems are published connected to a project supported by the DC Mayor’s Office of Community Affairs. Elijah Smith was a participant in the February 2026 Mid-Atlantic Review/Howard University retreat supported by the grant.

Ignited Light

I love
I love
I love.
The way your lips gently part
into a smile,
the confidence in your step,
the sway of your hair and your hips.
Your presence like light in the dark,
like a single plant
growing in the desert
unwavering and steady.

Not to mention your laugh.
I strain my ears to hear it,
repeat it in my head
over
and over
and over,
like a chorus on a loop,
a note silky and smooth.
It makes me close my eyes and listen,
just to open them and miss it.

You speak so clear and independent;
your words, like law,
both unite and divide.
They can be lava,
burn on contact,
leave me dazed and confused.
I want to hear more,
touch the stove and ignore the warning.
But others condemn
what they cannot control or understand.
They hate.
Hate.
Hate.
A woman whose words can divide;
yet those same words
can fly like birds,
bring freedom and peace,
flow like a flag on a pole,
stand for more
than empty promises.

But I would never tell you this.
You will never hear this.
Why?
Because we’ve never met,
never heard that laugh directed at me,
never been the reason for a smile
seared into my memory.

I’ve observed from afar.
Is this
obsession or infatuation?
Distance love bombing, maybe.
I’d like to call it
a healthy respect from a peer,
but then again peers don’t
daydream about scenarios,
about your beaming approval
of a feeble man
who’s trying to distinguish
his path, on how
to be acknowledged.

I’m nervous.
Palms sweating, thoughts spinning.
How?
How?
How?
Does one know you,
get past the shell you show?
Because behind the smile, laugh, and words,
there’s pain and hurt.

I want to reach out,
like someone grasping at stars,
like exes after a bad breakup:
pull you from the stars and break your problems
into astrology;
categorize them 1–12,
appoint a title,
and a theme for each one.
Then go one
by one,
by one,
until we reach the pinnacle;
find the shard that stings your soul,
capture it,
stomp it out,
throw it away,
cauterize the soul,
smooth it with balm,
then laugh away
the inevitable tears
under blankets or on the couch,
while we cook or dance
in whatever space we share.

Maybe I’m not making sense.
You’d probably think I’m crazy,
senseless.
But how else am I supposed to
describe your influence?
I’m playing tug of war with my heart and mind,
and I’m not sure
there’s room for a tie,
a grey area that fits just right.
Because, because, because
you are more than
my conjured thoughts of you
from my mind.
And I wonder: in our first encounter,
when my name slips from your lips,
will dream and daylight collide?
Or will this bombing of love dig into your heels,
fill your heart, and leave me stranded
on an island of possibility and disappointment?

The Man and the Rotation

I always wondered what you thought in those moments —
Game 6, 1998.
3:20 left in the fourth, down two.
Most men would crumble in those moments,
but not you.
Not 23.
Not the man in the arena
with the weight of a dynasty on his shoulders.

You took this series personally:
robbed of an MVP the year before.
You played it cool in the media,
nodding at the mailman, earning back the award.
But that didn’t stop the fuel.
It was time to prove why you’d created this era —
to use it as a stepping stone.

It wouldn’t be easy.
Utah was the least of your worries.
Even the organization felt stacked against you —
Jerry Krause in particular:
organizations win championships, he said.
A 9–7 start in November stung.
Then Pippen’s return steadied things.
You finished 62–20 —
not ’73, not ’69,
still the leader of your division and the East standings.

The playoffs opened smoothly,
breezing past the Nets.
The Hornets barely bothered.
Then the Pacers came —
pushing you to seven, physical, with a killer:
Reggie Miller.
You handled them,
closing the final game with 28, 9, and 8.
You were something special.
You welcomed the Jazz again.
People said without home court, you wouldn’t win.
I wonder if that thought crept in with 3:20 left.

Salt Lake City, they say, gets loud —
so loud you don’t know
if you’re in a war or a presidential inauguration.
I wonder how that noise felt to you.
You shot — toes just behind the three —
3:06 to go; it kissed the front rim,
bounced to the Jazz.
Most men would hang their heads, fold.
Not you.
You sprinted, caught it clean — a steal.

The Jazz came right back, however.
Malone hit a clean short midrange,
extending the lead to four.

You didn’t let it faze you.
You ISOed, carved Russell — jab, jab — and were gone,
two free throws.

Down the next trip, you backed him down: one dribble, two — spin —
the fade came, front rim again.
It seemed Superman was running out of gas —
frustration for any man. For you, plan B.

Left wing. Hesitate. Shoosh — you’re gone.
Two free throws. One minute. Tied.
This is where legends are made.

But the Jazz were resilient.
This was on their turf,
and they weren’t going down
without making you earn it.
Boom — Stockton three.
You didn’t have to be in the arena
to feel the spike of energy.

Forty seconds. Top of the key — go time.
One dribble, two — hesitation — then flight.
Russell misgauged you; easy layup, lead cut to one.
Those two plays began to define you.

They throw to Malone; you know the script.
Your eyes never left the ball. Clean swipe — the ball is yours.
20 seconds. You dribble up the court, sure —
this shot will decide it all.

Nine seconds. Left wing. Rodman clears.
A hesitation; you blow past.
As you bring the ball back, I want to think
you did it for all the fouls and layups.
As you rose and released, I wonder —
was your mind blank?
Did the world narrow?
I bet the arena hushed; the rotation of the ball filled your vision.
Teammates, crowd, noise — blurs.
Just you, the rim, and that arc.

In that thin, bright instant, did you have any second thoughts —
or did your world reduce to the rotation of the ball?

Elijah Smith is an English major at Howard University in Washington, D.C., and a recipient of the UNCF Wings Scholarship. He began writing poetry less than a year ago. He is interested in the space where voice, philosophy, and everyday experience meet on the page.

Featured image noahsilliman, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons