For Shaun

For Shaun

For Shaun


The first time you heard about it, the story was

he’d done it in an abandoned shack somewhere,

then later, in a garage. You saw the logic

in that. You saw the load-bearing possibilities

in its wooden beams. There was a movement

of things you could neither hold onto nor

let go of. Several years had passed in any case,

and your paths – never running exactly in parallel –

had diverged even beyond your imagination.

Yet at least they had once crossed, and you

find you instinctively remember him the other way.

His gloved fists, pendulums at the end of

cigarette-coloured arms, lie steady beside his

red trunks. The twin wells of his nostrils seethe,

dark curls bobbing above the bridge of his nose

as he enters the ring, with its examining lights,

looking like he has a fighting chance for once.


first published in Wildflower Muse, 2016


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