Memorial Day
Not the day Confederates
would celebrate, more an occasion
to conceal a necessary loss.
We hid what other families hide:
teenage hurts, an elder’s
disappointments, divided states
joined in partial truce—
a day he’d bring me
to the local court, its clay
red as a Georgia battleground.
Small talk, warm-up—then rally,
forehands whistling down the lines,
scattershot of backhands
and, on scoring a point,
his stentorian Advantage;
quieter for Deuce or Love.
Calling out: a gesture that goes
with rank. Abrasively assured
in the throat of a higher-up,
aggressive (or submissive)
from the adenoids of the unfledged
and those who’ve lost too often.
Never one to give way,
he had to prove worth
by winning—and losing
my sang-froid seemed in my blood—
but this day went better than expected.
He looked a little slower.
Or was I faster?
My serves had some sting,
volleys sharp, on target
and, unlike past beatings,
I nearly won the set, a tie-breaker.
At the net, he half-smiled
like a warrior whose tour was up,
and extended a hand.
Walking back, we must have formed
a comradely pair with rackets sheathed,
his arm draped over me
and mine over him,
our wounds for the moment bound.
Michael Sandler is the author of the poetry collection, The Lamps of History (FutureCycle Press 2021) that Kirkus Reviews described as a “complex, electric work of erudite poems.” His work has appeared in scores of journals including Arts & Letters, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and Zone 3. Michael lives near Seattle; his website is www.sandlerpoetry.com.
