two for ringside
C Ra McGuirt
i hadn’t been to the matches since i stepped out of the ring
washed off the makeup for good,&went back to only a poet
by i’d promised my vanya to take us sometime,
& last night, we finally made it.
the dystrophic to my right remembered me,&smiled like hell:
“y-yeah! yeah! l-luscious leslie!”
we laughed shoptalk all card long:
he knew his theatre well...
before the official carnage commenced,
they played the rocket’s red glare
& i stood with my hand on my cynical heart,
proud to be an american artist
at the blue collar ballet
with the heart of my stepson from russia
beating excited beside me.
everyone’s work was excellent,
the referree expertly blind.
i saw a few moves that i hadn’t before,
& it made me ache to break gravity,
trade some pain to sell the marks
on our status as demons and demigods...
too bad my time and back are gone.
vanya climbed my knee to see
the devastation just beyond
the inevitable fat old woman,
& i held him up through 10 matches,
discounting beer&bathroom breaks.
the pain was small; the joy immense,
& in the midst, a thought:
if god were great, i’d still be working
& my child could watch me fly...
but that night, god
was only good.
