Bradford Kimball

Warm for a fish,
The kingqueen of egglayers,
Innards sluicing round deckheight
Stain the waders of a bearded fisherman.
He slices clean the belly
With a curved tip razorknife gently,
Calls her gorgeous, kisses
Her whiskers whispers creekside



She expects that every man
Will do his slicing right.

Spring 2026 - Fear

Poetry

The Sturgeon General

The outlook was decidedly not brilliant for the Harvard Advocate nine that day. Only three members of our organization had signed up to play in the annual softball game against the Hasty Pudding Theatricals.


The oldest collegiate literary magazine in the nation vs. the oldest collegiate laughingstock in the nation.

Suffering from severe seasonal allergies that caused a great number of sniffles, I donned the Advocate “emo” sweatshirt and trudged across the mighty Charles River to the Mighty Cumnock Field. Just once I knew what life was for: beating the Hasty Pudding Theatricals. There were two term papers due tomorrow, but the Big Game was today.

Fortuitously, I also saw a school bus from my middle school parked by Cumnock. I do not know why that school bus was there. But one thing was for sure: I had the home field advantage.

I arrived five minutes late and found two theatricals playing catch. One was in my blocking group and the other was in my poetry workshop. Easy pickings. I warmed up and found the rhythm I once had playing for Dunster House (0-3 in intramural play).

But as time passed, dozens of theatricals (totalling eighteen in all) arrived at Cumnock Field, and not a single other advokat was in sight. Besides, perhaps, the ghost of T.S. Eliot.


They had jerseys! With nicknames embroidered on the back! They had Moscato!

I had the Advocate “emo” hoodie! I had a cup of water from the dining hall! I had one hand in my pocket, and the other one holding a baseball glove!


The teams were split in two and I found myself, the lone warrior for the Advocate, on Team Matt. It was called Team Matt because there was a guy named Matt on our team. I introduced myself to the players. I don’t think any of them remembered my name. They all called me Advo.

I batted seventh in the order and played a mean third base. They don’t call it the hot corner for nothing.


In my first at-bat I took a major hack but very nearly missed, and the ball bounced straight downward. It stayed fair and I ran very fast but I was out. In my second at-bat, I made weak contact. Another ground ball. Another out.

With only five minutes left to play (I had to run to a barbeque), I had one final at-bat for Team Matt. I stepped up to the plate. The pitch was slow, a bit outside, but at the perfect height. I swung and the ball zipped into the outfield, past the right fielder, and I took off. Team Matt was hasping and hooping and hirpling and hollering.


“My! What long legs he has,” said an anonymous member of the Hasty Pudding Band.


I ran so fast and I beat the throw home. I hit a home run for Mother Advocate.

“Bradford Kimball hits a rocket of his own at Cumnock,” the same anonymous member of the Hasty Pudding band said.

And then I left Cumnock, satisfied that Team Matt/Team Advocate was winning 13-2.

They say T.S. Eliot never hit a ball out of the infield in his life. Well, I did. Take that, Hasty Pudding.