On Calling Ourselves Men

Finger joints curling

back into     themselves

tucking away vulnerability

knuckles   bloodthirsty   canines

jagged mountaintops

volcanic uppercuts

we reach

alpha heights

Thunder-

crack sharp thump

sledgehammer-

blunt thwack

heads faces     bust

watermelons     split

flesh     hot

cooking oil   sizzle   spit

scarlet

splatter

stretched

skin valleys through the in between

where the rest of the blood flows

Me   a swimmer
wading in those target-red waters
small hands   flat-palmed   unfolded

fingers brittle

burnt   matchsticks

arms rolled   dough thin

pushed under

unable to muscle

through bicep waves

Adequacy

the rope I couldn’t climb in PE

What if I

hanging at the bottom

suspended     in the air

two feet from the ground

called them over

tapped cushion-soft

all their bone-made   cliff edges together

would their fists   open

like warbling mouths

unfold

into wing-spread doves?

Delivering seahorses?

Then   would we all

applaud

and call ourselves     men?

Header photograph © Chris Nielsen.