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The Boxer at Cleveland State University |
He taught ancient Near East history
as a tenured professor because his wife’s father endowed the chair
in Sumerian Subcultures five years ago.
Life was good until last month
when the beautiful secretary in the history department
had demanded more of him
because of their eight-month affair.
Ridiculous—she will not pursue this,
he thought, trying to dismiss this third try by her
to divorce his wife—this never was promised. |
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She wears the night as though it was her own.
In subtle gestures, swings her head and hips,
and walks the boulevard in search of bone
to satisfy the hate her heart now grips. |
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Her broken son, like a limp tender shoot,
was draped over her left arm, asleep;
the mother wailed shrill screams at the priest
kneeling near her in small puddles of blood.
The air, filled with sounds of battle, was mute
as though the shimmering burst of lights were
flashes of heat lightning; soldiers were
running in slow motion; they’d stop to shoot
someone; she didn't care, she was a mute
in a delirious dream. "He is asleep?"
she begged. The Serbian priest nodded, blood
dripped from the child's ear, and the sad priest |
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An award winning poem from Meter, Muse & Rhyme
A steamy day in Cicero, a 1940 GE fan at my feet circulates dead air around thin ankles. President Clinton promised something today, and I gave a dollar to the DAV; neither accounted for much on a pension like mine; things had been worse. Almost a year since Charlene’s death. |
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