Tonight's Poet Corner: Flesh Wound
Flesh Wound
by Belinda Roddie
I swung back with my father's sword,
trying to slash the sinew in his exposed forearm,
waiting for the opposing blade to clatter
in a cacophonous defeat on the concrete. I
barely scratched him, yet somehow he recoiled,
as if he had never felt pain before, let alone
pain dealt to him by a warrior's daughter. As
he ran, I thought I saw his eyes well up. Men
do not handle rivalry on the battlefield very well.
by Belinda Roddie
I swung back with my father's sword,
trying to slash the sinew in his exposed forearm,
waiting for the opposing blade to clatter
in a cacophonous defeat on the concrete. I
barely scratched him, yet somehow he recoiled,
as if he had never felt pain before, let alone
pain dealt to him by a warrior's daughter. As
he ran, I thought I saw his eyes well up. Men
do not handle rivalry on the battlefield very well.
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