← v9n2, Fall 2010
Poetry · Volume 9, Number 2

Ochre xx

He is gall & shadowplay, a viewfinder

Whose eye is spyglassed, orbing

Some radiance around his son, cantilevered:

The two souls

weighed upon the balance, throbbing

With the brinkmanship Cold War light. Boy in a gold plastic

Fencing mask, two plastic foils, rubber-tipped

To blunt such struggle. But the story’s governed & fixed—

Meet the stranger at the crossroads. Strike

Him down & finish him. He drops to the lawn;

His lids flutter shut

& when he requickens

His shadow joins him once again, horn-rims

Adjusted, a Kool straight lit in a trembling hand

To celebrate his resurrection. Touch the wounds,

He says—the side, the hands.

Touch now, it is permitted.