Gustavo Adolfo Aybar
Having recently sanded and finished
the wooden floors to the new house,
my eyes feel like that,
like the handheld sander scrapes
and pushes against my orbs.
Like that.
Voices, commands, not sight,
lead me
to the first few stations.
I execute jumping jacks, punches.
Palm/heel strikes and elbows
land thumps and thwaps
on the bags, over and over.
My eyes unwilling to unlatch
like the pull-down attic stairs,
while the pain descends
into my lungs
with bangs and clangs
like the broom handle I used
to try and pry the door loose.
Like the door,
none of my eyes open.
Next station.
My right leg snaps
and strikes the foam.
I wheeze. I cough,
I choke. Knees and baton strikes
follow. I'm barely able to think
and blink from the right,
when I identify the instructor
who sprayed me. My thumb releases
the pivot guard, as I pop
the blue training pistol up
and out of the holster.
I order him to drop the knife;
my eyes and sights on his chest,
index finger on the trigger.
The muzzle of my gun
covers everything
I am willing to destroy.