Grip

If it had become a competition in which we,
Like children desperate for the blue ribbon,
Pulled knotted hemp, gripping until certain
Of calluses, if our contest awarded the strongest,

The boy who could best inflict pain yet not
Flinch when injured, then you won, for I must
Imagine the brown of your back to reach my
Peak, a short thread of breaths, a tug of war

With the heaviest child grunting at the end
Of the rope until jerked and dragged over
The line. That fat kid flounders through muck

The way I splash your relentless name
In shivers about me. Watch him wallow.
If he tastes mud as bitter as this poem

Of mine, then I win – and you love me.