Michael Waters

Two Poems

PRAYER FOR EX-CHAMPS

Wise guys weep when the great ones,
  the almost-undefeated, 54-3, rise
to the ring announcer’s vaulting of their names,

these ex-champs barely able now to climb
  through the ropes without help,
or respond to the fight fans’ uproar

by raising one palm above a brow.
  Nothing’s everlasting.
Faces puffed, speech slurred—O Lord

allow no pity for these damaged souls
  though light can’t seep through
scar tissue nor praise unscroll their ears.

Grant them the dignity of lovers who accept
  their losses. I have seen crowds hush,
remembering the knockout punch—

whose heart can withstand such fury,
  resurrect the failing flesh?
Here in the Garden of our making

we pause for the ex-champs, shadow
  selves, ancient Adams still able
to walk away, & never look back,

before the promoter’s niece sings,
  before the contenders touch gloves
&, against all odds, begin to flail.

LA BOHÈME:
THE NEW ENGLAND MARIONETTES

Rodolfo rubs clay hands against the cold,
  then tosses his work-in-progress into the fire.
   Better to survive the Parisian winter
     than allow the soul a sheen of ice
  that further diminishes its muffled voice.

When Mimi floats across the garret, clutching
  one unlit candle, Rodolfo basks in sudden
   warmth, gazes into her wooden heart
     to recognize the promise of spring
  kept alive through ceaseless embroidering.

Their duet ("O soave fanciulla!") proclaims new-found
  love, but three acts later Mimi will die
   as Rodolpho shouts her name across rooftops.
     What could the bohemians have done
  but hock heavy coats, sell earrings for medicine?

The grief in Pavarotti’s throat, the enormous skulls
  weighing each marionette, strain toward the bridge
   where, dressed in black, the almost-
     invisible masters allow strings
  to fall slack, then cradle their stars in aching

arms before slipping the lovers into chamois sacks.
  We all drink at the nearby inn while
   Rodolfo and Mimi lie inches apart,
     unable to touch, or rekindle the wick,
  while the puppeteers feel the Scotch’s fire

roar through their souls: one century gone, Puccini
  gone, Pavese gone by his own hand, in Turin,
   where the opera was first performed,
     before art gave over its grief
  to the gestures of little people made of clay.