BECKER’S TONGUE (LAMENT FOR EUROPE)

Here we go again, that tongue-wagging,
that bravado part of your psyche,
your heritage, sense of self, suppressed
sixty years ago when shame took hold.

Such lava passion oozes through cracks,
then congeals at the intersection
of madness, menace, folly and fear:
perfidy from the jealous cuckold.

But I see the hanging tongue, the lunge,
the outward display an army’s march
movement to music sets, no matter
how disturbing or wanton the song.

The tongue turns right, and Agassi knows
the direction Becker’s serve will go.

Abrasion disguises the fissure.
This sweep of suspicion, printing of lines,
loudest in a series of signals
issuing an inaudible bleep.

Fathom deposits thawed are expressed,
strain revealing deep lines in your face.
Whether the ooze a continent coats
rests on whether a continent sleeps.

But I see the hanging tongue, the stick
pointing players to strengthen and strike,
the stick they watch no matter the song.
For playing together is to belong.

The tongue turns right, and Agassi knows
the direction Becker’s serve will go.


Adam Parker
July 6, 2008