Using images of war, Steven Riel writes on a rivalry between brothers…and the ensuing fallout.
—
Desperate Measures
If we played queens—Elizabeth R;
Mary, Queen of Scots—I’d behead you.
On our family’s Stratego board, my indiscernible
Maginot Line would blow
your dull-witted generals
to smithereens. Even flitting
badminton could turn nasty:
well-aimed smashes raised welts,
& drop-dead dropshots
became yet more ways to stud my fuselage
with victories over you, brother,
the only outgunned opponent in sight.
At school, shame strafed me in slow motion
as I slumped with the standbys
whenever captains picked teams.
I’d taxi grounded fury, clumsy wings
to the outfield, twist my propeller
till I was a taut, knotted rubber band,
then dive-bomb you later that night.
Wolfe outflanked Montcalm’s height
one dawn, captured the Plains of Abraham,
but grapeshot leveled them both.
I did my homework. I knew the stakes
grown men wagered & only sometimes won.
I played with a stacked deck: keeping
the Balance of Power always in my favor,
you pinned down under constant fire,
the no-man’s land between us pitted
with mines that would cut you down years later
unless defused by a team of experts
clutching helmets, meters, odd vacuum cleaners.
As if such experts exist–
As if it were not too late
to deploy them.
***
First published in Bay Windows, January 1985. Later published in The Spirit Can Crest (Amherst Writers & Artists Press, 2003), and in Fellow Odd Fellow (Trio House Press, 2013).
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