15 February 2015

Suicidally beautiful galloping sons


                                    by Jared Harel

Go so you can come back,
says my wife, meaning go but don't linger
in frozen foods, or forget
where you parked, or chat up the cashier.
Go, certainly because something
needs getting while our daughter takes a nap
and the snow isn't snowing,
and here are some coupons that happen
to be expiring, so go before all the produce
turns soft and stringy,
and school lets out, and a tallish boy
hawking fruit snacks
by the entrance wins you over, and you throw him
cash, your wallet, everything for the sake
of his under-funded football team
because though you never loved football
you love James Wright's poem about football
and solitude, and those suicidally
beautiful, galloping sons
and go because I love you, though I also love
those parmesan pop chips,
and to love is to leave
room for longing, but come back
so that we might go out together, later,
in a perpetual rotation of goings and comings
which require nothing but patience
and faith that when we go
we remember where is home.  

From The American Poetry Review, January/February 2015.


                                        by James Wright

In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.

All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.

Their sons grow suidically beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.

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