Who Wrestles

The day I became New York champion

I knew I couldn’t wrestle.

Good thing my body could.

It leaned and bunched of its own.

It coiled and countered each opponent,

move upon move,

so much more skilled than I.

Even so, it listened to advice.

Watch the kid from Wagner, I said,

he throws shoulder-to-shoulder rolls.

No talk of strategy,

just a word to the wiser.

And sure enough,

midway into that final match,

there it was…

His left shoulder folded.

His chin snapped down.

Such a perilous move against the forewarned.

I let him turn as a shaft

in the circle of my arms

and bound him as his feet

pointed to the ceiling.

My weight bore him to his blades.

He bridged and spun to his belly.

Still, crucial points for a near pin.

Later, the trophy,

the applause,

the winners’ photo,

the article in the paper,

the Little Joe Grappler award.

And the right to tell others,

with an ego’s pride,

of my wrestling prowess.

But who, exactly, had won?