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The Scrimmage

There is violence here 

an abundance of it 

fists and elbows and tongues that lash out 

ankles and knees that fight to keep balance 

                                             this is violence. 

There are gestures of thrusting hips 

arms extended 

anger exposed 

speed enticed by wheels of rubber and steel 

sounds of strained voices 

                                            this is violence. 

 

Apparently there is no fresh meat here. 

 

These skates are worn 

by bearers of flesh experienced 

to the feel of burning skin 

red raw from fishnets rubbing surfaces exposed 

to the elements of an unforgiving floor 

                                            this is violence. 

One body is lost on the battle field. 

A veteran flat on her back 

cries out in agony 

for she has been winded 

wiped out 

wrecked. 

All her sisters 

on the same side and opposing 

All her sisters64 

fall onto bended knee 

stationary 

- except for their wheels 

which continue to turn 

sighing in their trucks 

perhaps the thoughts of those that wear them 

(getupgetupgetupgetupgetup) 

as stripes flock about her 

flapping squawking 

placing hands with the lightness of feathers 

upon her panting body 

she rises with a cry 

and all applaud 

                                            this is violence placated. 

The scrimmage starts again 

the circle is skated 

and if there were ice 

it would be thin 

For: 

bones be brittle 

and tones be laden 

with frothing spittle 

declaring the calls of an imitated war 

and the reasons (or lack of) for 

                                             this is violence. 

 

Go to Candy Royalle's profile to read more poems