The Rite (I/III)
It remains immediate
like fresh abrasion –
the night yowls of rage crashed at us.
I raced the stairs to find
as you stomped forward,
two bulls bellowing wrath at the other.
You didn’t know
I foresaw the day:
rehearsed it amidst school work,
petitioned for its extinction when I shuttered my eyes.
I imagined your response, the extreme it would incense you,
whether you would wallop me,
how many blows I might withstand.
The fracas swelled to a squall of fretful limbs and grotesque squawks.
I watched –
quaking at the barbarism I would commit –
and then, with blind will,
heaved my flimsy mass into your path,
”I won’t let you hit her.”
You shuttled your eyes
to mine –
startled by my transgression –
inquired if I mean
to strike you,
cautioned it would incur damnation.
No other words I could marshal.
”I won’t let you hit her,”
I recited the vow –
initiate in profane rite of manhood –
frightened and intrigued by the consequence –
bracing for your launch.
It never came.
You huffed your fume and withdrew.
Photograph by Nicolas FuentesHire An Editor