Lately, I’ve been praying
for life to surprise me
like a pitch-black living room
primed to fracture
into song and streamers,
a hand on my shoulder
yelling, Didn’t think
we remembered, did ya?
Lately, my counter-thoughts
have been riddled with guilt,
the way a stray wallet
excites before shaming,
though shame lasts
and bitters the tongue.
I saw coverage yesterday
of a third beheading
while doing crunches
on an exercise ball.
The ball, I remember,
was clown-nose red,
and never before had I felt
so damaged, so lucky
and absurd. I drove home
drowning in the hum
of sports radio, grateful
for the scores and in-depth
analysis. Someone
had become a restricted
free-agent. Someone
had been traded and was
finally coming home.
[This poem is the winner of the 2015 Stanley Kunitz Memorial Prize. The prize awards $1,000 and publication of the poem in APR to a poet under 40 years of age, in honor of the late Stanley Kunitz’s dedication to mentoring younger poets.]