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.