by Avis M. Adams
1.
Your eyes peer into a distance
that holds your adversary.
Weapon in hand, the rock
a projection of yourself,
your gaze level.
To the giant,
you must have appeared
beautiful, graceful, easily
broken. Your hairless chin,
and slender thighs speak
of youth. Your shoulders fall
away relaxed, a half-turn
to your waist as you contemplate,
lean and prepared.
2.
My young son’s
blue eyes round and expectant,
He whispers, “For real?
With his sling shot?
What was his name,
that Philistine?”
I thought of David’s mother,
and realized her fear.
CNN reports from Tel Aviv
how the Palestinian Prime Minister
asked for clemency.
“My people want only a home,”
he says to explain the bombs,
the dust shrouded ruins.
3.
His head tilted to the left,
My son asks,
“Did David miss?”
Avis M. Adams is an English Instructor at Green River Community College in the Puget Sound area of Washington State. Her poems have appeared in literary journals such as Crosscurrents, The Washington Journal, as well as online at Perigee and Anderbo.
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