I know that I was suckered in:
firm curves bulging, olive skin,
perfectly well-rounded cheeks
rubified with port-wine streaks,
the saffron crown with one deep crack,
an eggplant-colored nob in back—
a touch of tumor. It would still
be sunning on my windowsill—
art illustrating daily life—
except I took my carving knife
and slowly sliced five slabs of fresh,
soil-sweet, yet vaguely bitter flesh.
—from Rattle #60, Summer 2018
Tribute to Athlete Poets
A.M. Juster: “I was a three-sport letterman in high school (albeit a tiny high school) and was recruited by Yale to play soccer, where after three weeks I gave up the sport for the great books program and other distractions of college. Although my basketball letter was a charity letter, in my early 40s I did shoot for one minute at the halftime of a Celtics-Cavaliers game as part of a five-man team that defeated 32 other teams in the Red Auerbach Charity Shootout.” (web)
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