a poem i thought was finished and therefore submitted to a magazine, then returned to and (hopefully) improved, only to find the original version appear in print (which, don't get me wrong, i am very greatful for). upon rereading, i'm not completely sure which version i prefer, so i figured i'd post both here:
#1
i love a good fight
though i rarely get one
we crack each others' hearts
like eggs then wait in the
silence for the dripping of blood
some would call us masters
but masters understand spectacle
fireworks shoot off when
they enter the arena
we're still amateurs
touring the dusty whistle stops
covering middle america with
bruises
scars
no stadiums
or entourages
we stumble home at night
to nurse our wounds
alone.
from the 2006 issue of The White Wall Review
#2
i love a good fight
though i rarely get one
we crack each others' hearts
like eggs then wait in the
silence for the dripping of blood
some would call us masters
but masters understand spectacle
fireworks shoot off when
they enter the arena
we're still amateurs
touring the dusty whistle stops
covering middle america with
bruises and scars
no stadiums
or entourages
we stumble home at night
to nurse our wounds
and wait for the phone
to ring.
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