Fighting Season
Richard Boada

If nothing gold and you can stay,
I thought I knew from the wide

stretch of navy-black sky and sawgrass
so high and wild that we’d marry and guard
our youth, again. I’d be your

husband-sentinel, crouching in front
of heavy steel trailer axles, cleaning glass,

firing coal to blasphemous heat,
and blasting away shoulders
of meat like a matador with spears. 

There’s a riot on the radio, they’re not
the only ones with guns, blood-slick sauce

on my apron, and you, a fingerprint on my mind
like a crinkling paperback squaring against my nostalgia,
a fist in a glove ready to pop and pummel. I want

to be the lasting bloom,
the bombardier that holds back the lever. 

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