Points of Contact
By Kyle Dargan
Name one revolution whose inception was unlike a fist.
Factions disparate, then tucked together—coiled like a fist.
Foreign policies are symbol languages—idiomatic, cryptic.
In America, nothing says "We desire peace" like a fist.
The heart is a one-man rave in the body's industrial district.
Blooddrunk and insomniac, it pumps toward sleep like a fist.
Mammogram magic revealed my lover's dense breasts.
Behind each nipple I kissed, a soft knot threatened her like a fist.
Our universe's yet shattered mysteries fear the astrophysicist.
"Damn his galaxies-thick glasses, his mind, relentless, like a fist."
"Like a glove"—the young groom exalts his wife's love, its fit.
Sounds romantic. (He means sex—her love's grip like a fist.)
"An unfocused punch, Kyle, risks a broken hand or wrist."
So laden the psyches of men. Father, must I also think like a fist?
Copyright Credit: Kyle Dargan, "Points of Contact" from Honest Engine. Copyright © 2015 by Kyle Dargan. Reprinted by permission of University of Georgia Press.
Source: Honest Engine (University of Georgia Press, 2015)