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Here is a new poem I’ve written. It’s a little weird (since I don’t really write poetry), but it’s been fun to try. Anyway, here you go.
I feel a weight between my legs
pulling at my back and thighs like sumo squats.
It’s heavy with the weight of my father,
and his father, and his father, and his father,
and every father.
I feel it as you wait for me to lean in.
I feel it as I try to sweep away the near-invisible
strings from your body with my scissor-fingers.
I feel it as sex billows from your body
like dry ice, your face frozen in place.
With every crinkled lip, eyebrow raise,
shooed hand, thirstless look, whisper,
shift, silence, smirk,
The weight grows, my back and head bows,
and even my eyes
are pulled low to your feet.
What lovely shoes you have.
I wrap my arms around your feet
and kiss the scuffed brown leather
and gently loosen the yellow-striped strings
and lick the slack tongue.
This is a little piece … it’s not fiction so much, but I’m not exactly sure what it is. Just got nostalgic about playing football with my friends. Been trying to write from a very honest emotional place of late.
I remember the Sunday afternoons, the sweatpants, the tattered jerseys. I remember the worn college-sized football, the crisp fall weather, the orange cones marking out the out-of-bounds lines and the first down markers. I remember the broken nose I got, the concussions, the knee that to this day pop and cracks and hurts when I run. I remember hitting men and getting hit, of crawling on all fours as my breath came back to me, of grunting as I try to block a defender twice my size. I remember the anger that would boil over, the fistfights, the blatant fouls and late hits, and the fact that we could return them the favor on the next play. I remember the touchdowns, the perfect deep pass dropping over the shoulder of the receiver like Montana to Rice, the juke to make the defender slide on the wet grass and slapping hands away from gripping my robust Buffalo Bills jersey. I remember the excitement of seeing someone catch their first touchdown, of seeing someone overpower someone they never thought they could, of dropping their shoulder and planting the defender in the chest, throwing him backward. I remember the touchdown dances, taunting the opposing players, waving my finger in their face, hoping they came at me angry, because when they charged me with anger, they became that much easier to evade. I remember coming home bruised and cut and groaning and feeling more alive than I’d felt in months.
Now we have children, health insurance, things to do, and what-ifs. We walk around scared. We become fragile. We get busy. We lose interest. We live through others because we’re afraid to feel alive like that again.
I’m not much of a poet. We should all know that by now, but I have written some poetry over the years, and I have decided to put it up here. It’s something I’d like to get back into. It does no good to simply dismiss something. Anyway, below is a poem I wrote.
I misremembered, yes
a trembled memory, my member,
the street lender, the missing sender
the tender feeling I misremember
The girl, she taught, she rendered me
asunder, her fender so round
I can’t help but remember
her end, the end, I misremember
And if you send prying eyes
my faith will wander, wake
die for memory’s sake, tender
my resignation, sweet pretender
Miles and Miles and Miles and Miles
act the truest memory, the sweet
trend, love bends, mends, sends
over the distance, misremembering the rest.