On Losing a Fight at Fifteen

This is what I remember
as his fist, thick and meaty
flew towards my face.

I remember thinking how his anger
reminded me of my father’s,
assured and self righteous,

impervious to facts,
consumed by some beast within
that swallowed the best of him

and left this instrument of destruction,
that left me, just as I was with my father as a child,
paralyzed.

I remember regretting my own kindness,
that Jesus would be proud of my gentleness,
chosen deliberately, but

that the cost of that gentleness
had never been made as real
as it was about to be come.

I remember thinking I had all the tools,
knew what to do, how to hurt,
the precise place to cause him the most pain,

His fist halfway to my face,
I wondered if his anger would be spent
with this might blow I was about to absorb.

Was his anger a flash that would be gone,
or just the beginning of a rage without end,
and would I end up hopelessly broken.

I was glad he was barefoot.
At least there would be no steel toes.
I remember being glad that he too would hurt.

When his fist was nearly to my cheek,
I tried to pray, but was as we so often are,
too slow.

I do not remember the contact,
Suddenly I was there,
Then I wasn’t.

I still bear the scar.
But I got the girl.

About this poem. 

It’s an almost true story, as in some of it is true, and some of it is poetic license. I have no idea why it came back to mind this morning when things are peaceful and postcard perfect with the snow.

But brains are like that sometime.

Tom