Posted by Atticus on August 17, 2004, at 14:38:15
Two Wolves, 1988
Two steel blades
Beat out
A rapid-fire
Percussion accompaniment
To a racing pair
Of adolescent heartbeats
In an ass-kicking,
Uplifting
Medley
Of death jazz
As Temple
And I
Do our damnedest
To run each other
Through
With our foils,
The high-pitched
Song of one weapon
Sliding along
The length
Of another,
The ringing impact
Of her pommel
Slamming into mine,
Creating
A lovely
And arousing
Cacophony
As we drive
One another
Up and down,
Down and up
The ridged rubber strip
Unfurled
Across the floor
Of the school cafeteria,
Its worn and faded
Black-and-white
Checkerboard linoleum
Transformed
Into an arena
Smelling sweetly
Of hormone-scented
Sweat
And filled
With our own
Special brand
Of foreplay.And I can feel
The black wolf
With the blazing red eyes
Racing over the ridges
And through the crevasses
Of my brain,
Leaving paw prints
Like hissing
White-hot
Liquified lead
Sizzling on the slick
Wet surface
Of the cerebellum,
Brands that mark
Both his passing
And his territory.
The smell of our violence
And of raw teenaged carnality,
Short on love,
Long on lust,
Enflames his nostrils
And his appetite
As he gallops
Toward my eyes
To peer out,
To take control,
To show just who's
The alpha dog.I'm convinced
That somehow
Temple can see
His scarlet gaze
Behind my own,
And that it is
The ebon wolf,
With his aura
Of unbridled,
Unpredictable,
Utterly confident
Behavior
And misbehavior
That really draws her
And Acid-Addled Walter
And Tiny Tokin' Tim
To me,
Their feral
Pied Piper.The dark wolf
Glances back
To see
A scrawny white wolf,
Half-starved, ribs visible,
With sad, hollow
Yellow-green eyes
And matted fur,
Cowering
Beneath a ridge
Of frontal lobe.
Satisfied
That its supremacy
Remains undiminished,
The beast again
Absorbs my eyes
Into its own
And watches
My bout
With Temple.My foil's
Tape-covered grip
Balances
Ever so lightly
On the fulcrum
Of my right
Index finger,
My thumb steering
And spinning
The plastic-sheathed
Tip
Of the blade
To keep it
Aimed
Straight
At Temple's body,
My other fingers
Loosely curled
Around the grip
But barely
Touching it,
Snapping shut
Only
When I try
To beat her blade
Out of alignment
With my own torso
Or need
To bolster
My hold
To parry
An offensive thrust.Temple kicks
Her right foot
Forward,
Simultaneously
Extending
Her right arm
To full length.
I swing my blade
To my left,
Curling my wrist
Slightly
But keeping the point
Aligned,
Moving into
A parry four,
Anticipating
That she's going
For my left flank.
Her blade slides harmlessly
Along mine,
Tip impaling only air
As it slips
Past my rib cage,
Missing
By a full inch.
Now she's vulnerable,
Off-balance,
So I riposte,
Hard,
My right arm
Shooting forward
Directly
At her chest,
My point
Eliciting
A muffled
Thump
As it strikes
The circular convex
Metal plate
Under the heavy fabric
Of her jacket
That protects
Her right breast.
The black wolf's
Howl of triumph
Rises and rebounds
From one side
Of my skull
To the other,
Its echoes still
Lingering as
It glares
Through my pupils."Touch against,"
Shouts our coach,
Mr. Tejera,
Raising a finger
In Temple's direction.
"Ow, my boob,"
Says Temple
In a voice
That mixes
Anger and humor.
"You did that
On purpose, you brat,"
Temple adds,
In a tone
That promises
Retaliation
And, paradoxically,
Reward.
"Legitimate target,"
I shrug,
But I know
That probably stung.
I've seen those twin
Metal and plastic discs
When she slides them
From the pockets
Inside
Her jacket,
And they're
Riddled
With dents and dings.We assume
Our starting positions
On the strip,
Then drop our blades
Into ready position.
"Fencers ready?"
Asks Mr. Tejera.
"Ready, sir,"
Temple and I
Respond in unison.
"Fence!" he says firmly.
She advances
Relentlessly,
Focusing her attack
On my right side
Because she knows
I'm a little slower
When trying to move
Into parry six,
And sometimes
She just blows
Clean through it
Anyway.
I feel her blade's tip
Nick my right ribs,
And Mr. Tejera
Shouts, "Touch against,"
Before adding, "Final point."We're tied, four to four,
And the first one
To ring up five hits
Will win the bout.
We reverse positions
On the strip,
And as I glance over
At the stacks of tables
And chairs
The team
Shoved off to the side
Of the lunchroom
To accommodate
Three strips,
I see Acid-Addled Walter
Grinning,
His mask held
Against one hip,
His left hand
Resting jauntily
On his weapon
As if it were
A steel walking stick.
He knows
That he won't be seeing
Me and Temple
For the rest
Of the night.
The whole team,
Except the
Perpetually clueless
Mr. Tejera,
Understands
Where things are heading
When Temple and I
Go at it
Like this.As we each assume
Ready position,
My mind drifts,
Just for a moment,
To a Cherokee story
I read
In middle school.
An elderly chief
Is teaching
His children about life.
He says to them,
"A fight
Is going on
Inside me.
It is a terrible fight
And it is between
Two wolves."He continues,
"One wolf
Represents
Fear,
Anger,
Envy,
Sorrow,
Regret,
Greed,
Arrogance,
Self-pity,
Guilt,
Resentment,
Inferiority,
Lies,
False pride,
Superiority,
And
Ego."
The aged Cherokee
Pauses
For emphasis.
"The other wolf
Stands for
Joy,
Peace,
Love,
Hope,
Sharing,
Serenity,
Humility,
Kindness,
Benevolence,
Friendship,
Empathy,
Generosity,
Truth,
Compassion,
And
Faith."The chief raises
His forefinger,
Placing it
Over the heart
Of one
Of the children.
"This same fight
Is going on
Inside you
And every
Other person
As well."
The children think
For a minute,
Then one asks,
"Which one
Will win,
Grandfather?"
The old Cherokee
Simply replies,
"The one
You feed."I tumble back
Into the moment
As I hear
The command "Fence!"
Temple lunges for
My right side again,
But I realize,
Too late,
It's a feint,
And she plunks me
Squarely on the breastbone,
My hand still locked
Into a useless parry six.
We doff
Our wire-mesh masks
And shake left hands
Before tucking
Our blades
Under our arms
And tugging
And peeling
The sweat-stained
Leather gauntlets
Off our right palms
And fingers."Good match," I say,
As she lets down
Her hair.
"I've had worse,"
She answers, smiling.
Acid-Addled Walter
Rolls his eyes,
Flashes a peace sign
And heads
Out the door
To the locker room.
The rest of us
Move
The cafeteria tables
And chairs
Away from the walls
And back
Into a pattern
That vaguely
Resembles
Order.And a few hours later,
As Temple and I
Lay curled naked
Under a blanket
On the dried and cracked
Plastic
Of the back seat
Of her mastodon-sized
Harvest-gold
'72 Chevy,
She looks
Into my eyes,
And I know
She doesn't see a trace
Of pale blue there,
Only the luminescent
Molten-lava glow
Of red.
-- Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:378770
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040729/msgs/378770.html