Grip

If it had become a competition in which we,

Like children desperate for the blue ribbon,

Pulled knotted hemp, gripping until certain

Of calluses, if our contest awarded the strongest,

The boy who could best inflict pain yet not

Flinch when injured, then you won, for I must

Imagine the brown of your back to reach my

Peak, a short thread of breaths, a tug of war

With the heaviest child grunting at the end

Of the rope until jerked and dragged over

The line. That fat kid flounders through muck

The way I splash your relentless name

In shivers about me. Watch him wallow.

If he tastes mud as bitter as this poem

Of mine, then I win – and you love me.