The Boy Who Held On

Death to identity! life says to us: each of us is the other, goodbye to one body in order to enter another!                 Neruda

I wish I could remember the boy
who played touch football

who went out for a long pass
slipped and fell on his back

and the ball landed on his chest
as others laughed at the indignity

but he with the joy of holding on
and the girl in the coral dress

whose eyes tore holes in the world.
I wish I could recall how rain stung

in November wind with darkness
rushing in, how cars swooshed

through wet streets and the air
tasted bitter and salty and sweet

as they ran soaked and laughing
back into the ticking realm of time.

So many selves peeled away, skins
left to rot by cans in the alleyways.

I wish all bodies could return, even
if it meant the ache of light and weight

and habitual noise of grinding minds
eating away at their limestone selves.

Steve Klepetar

If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.