Wrestle Them Out

this is the puzzle of the wrestle.
no, it is not the mortar and pestle.
not the usual metric matter, but something
beyond what your eyes can see,
a fusion and diffusion of arms and legs,
muscles and cartilages, you look for
the abdomen hidden by an abdomen,
there are no mouths, strictly no tongues,
but there are lots of fingers and toenails.
whose face is that? it is twisted.
Whose mouth is that? it is twitching.
whose faces faces whom? Butts
and bottoms. Could be robert's?
Could be ric's? Two bodies wrestling
fate. The stars bet their light. The moon
is awed. The night gets darker.
No one wants to go home. Everyone
is watching the wrestle. All flesh.
The pressure builds like a muscle.
My neck is bound by an elbow.
The elbow is bound by the thigh.
There is prison and bars and rings.
Knobs. Locks. No keys.

We struggle to be free.
We hold and then we loosen.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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