Rugby poem from the perspective of the hooker (or 2) in a scrum.
As fingers plunge into my ribcage
-shirt rips, skin breaks-
The intention of their violent hold is mirrored by the faithful, blue sky.
Within the intimidating knot of bodies lies
a culture of solitude
Brief silence before the collision,
Where we still discover peace within the bind.
Crouch…
Touch…
Pause…
ENGAGE.
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