Keith Moul

Taking a Back Seat

They agreed she was no thief
but surely she had taken

a back seat

in the farthest reaches
of a vast arena
from where the contest
offered only puppet show
with sound and struggle
amplified.

She concentrated: on her hands,
lively, graceful things; on
her fingers long and flowing;
on the clustered jewels
in her family ring.

They agreed she was no thief
but surely she had taken

aim,

pressured his defense
with slashing cuts
and feather touch
and scored,
a canny shot;

or dead at his heart
to baffle his senses,
all stunned
by her wizardry:

some games became war.

Her ardor was his anthem.

They agreed he was no thief
but surely he had taken

flight

for the gift it was—
the whistle of feather
and hollow bone;

as white knuckles of fear;

by ruthless dodges
around laws
of gravity,
of nature,
or of love.

He let her choose
her own bird of apology.

They agreed he was no thief
but surely he had taken

effect:

the clock had tolled,
the calendar had turned
on too many fateful events.

Had birds and butterflies
adapted to ice?
Had violence as a lion
kneeled to the lamb?
Had children, her child, left
and taken innocence?

He devolved to fetal dependency;
he bled amniotic fluid;
he listed his possessions
and beliefs in his last testament
as "nil."

She finally accepted his panic
as more than private weakness
more like a hurt evangelist
disoriented, committing acts
usual only to nonbelievers.

From his yet-to-be-published manuscript, To Take and Have Not