A Newly Discovered James Wright Poem
The ghost of my life travels with me,
toe to toe like a prizefighter,
eyes shut, bloody nose.
The referee looks closely at the lyrics,
waiting for the first sign
that the poem is becoming defenseless.
Left hook, jab,
body punches, sweat pouring
onto the mat.
The hands seem to defy gravity,
they do not seek their home
of their own accord,
yet,before you know it
they are back where they belong,
and then the bell rings.
The fight is over.
The winner and the loser
have been beaten to a pulp.
The crowd cheers and boos,
throws beer cans, yells in anger.
One poem wears bloody black trunks,
the other poem wears bloody white trunks.
The gloves are cut off,
and the hands blossom.
Copyright 2003 The Estate of James Wright.
Thanks to the anonymity of the Internets
and to the obscurity of my blog, I am publishing
it here without permission. Hopefully, a sober
Franz doesn’t stumble upon it by accident. Damn