Two Poems by Sean Eaton (Apricity Mag.)

The Boxer

A white wolf going in for the kill. An ambushing.
Sharp features, buzzed hair. His skin like jade,
his body rock-cut, tall muscles tensed like a violin’s
four strings. He makes them sing loudly as he
works himself up. His capillaries thrum with liquid
light. Coiled up like a Diamondback shaking its
rattle, with a half-cocked grin his flickering limbs
scythe holes through the air, kissing the punching
bag with ragged knuckles now rose-washed,
fragrant with the shriving red scent of iron.
Uppercut, undercut, left feint, right hook.

Primed with youth, adrenaline, and testosterone,
he carries himself like a king of Cambodia.
Kintsugi-seamed, his lithe body scissoring, now
swerving, glimmering with sweat and limned with
the daylight drifting in through dusty windows,
he fights his ghosts, his father’s razored voice
skimming his eardrums above the roar of the
sea, the murmuring hive of invisible spectators,
heart notes and base notes resounding in unison,
melodious with the pulsing ostinato of iron.
Uppercut, undercut, left feint, right hook.

Memories: his father drunk in deep nights, the belt
leaving his hands—the welting sting of the bumble-
bee, its ancient yellow fur scalding his eyelids.
He thinks the white instruments of sex and pain
are enough to forget. He hates to be touched.
He loves to brawl with the high-class gods who
come slumming it in the neighborhood bars, looking
for girls who are easy prey. He makes love with his
knuckles and grins wide, punch-drunk and in love.
This is all he wants from life, the thrill of the hunt.
Uppercut, undercut, left feint, right hook.



Sea Lions

God works in mysterious ways—so they say (why?).
As a backland dweller far from the ocean, nestled
in the rolling sea-swells of these verdant troll-hills
so far inland as I am, I marvel at the bustling sea life
found on the elsewhere coasts, scabrous starfish
and amoebic jellyfish, skeletal red crabs and lobsters,
sleek-furred fat seals and sea lions stretched out
languorously on the grey sands and dark rocks,
herds of parents, children, and grandparents
sunning themselves serenely without even troubling
over what they’ll have for dinner—so close to you,
the observer, intrepid beach-goer, that you could
almost touch them. You want to touch them,
to stroke their guileless silken puppy-heads along
their scalps, above the dark tide-pools of their eyes
and their bristled whiskers. But they are wild animals
after all, and they may bite. You don’t pet them,
and you keep your fingers as a result.
I’m a silly person, and want to be friends with all of
mankind, every man and woman who walks
the misshapen crags of this planet’s surface.
But that’s unreasonable, and they should be left alone.
if you don’t pet them, you’ll keep all your fingers.


---Published by Apricity Magazine, May 2024
https://apricitymagazine.com/portfolio/the-boxer/
https://apricitymagazine.com/portfolio/sea-lions/
--posted here Dec. 7, 2024