by Robert Levine

Created on: March 02, 2011

THE TUG OF WAR

We made our way back to the cord

sworn to us ages ago but

whipped from our hands by enemies

now long dead; we picked it up

once more and tried to follow it.

Newcomers squatted on the sand

ignoring the cord, impassive.

Minutes into our advance they snapped

to their feet and their neighbors

thronged from every direction

to throw us from the rope.

§

We formed a single line:

tall and short, muscular and skinny, smart and stupid.

We all decided to straddle the cord

as the best way to secure our grip.

We could clasp our legs together

if it started to slip.

They couldn't agree on whether to seize

the rope on the left or right-they split into

rows on each side, turned at each other

gritting their teeth, hoisting the rope a foot out

from their chests as one handles a python.

§

We stood our ground, and even gained some cord.

When they knew they couldn't win,

they pledged to only hold the rope.

They said they gave up wanting to topple us.

We let them hold their length as best they could.

Their grasp still kept the rope tense.

And behind the man in front who clutched it

with just his right hand and waved to us with his left,

laughing, others freed their own right hands

to reach for pocket knives.

                                           Luckily,

each side gave its blades their own shape;

the different, awkward angles at which they sawed

(a few from above, others from under)

the stiff fibers prevented them

from ever meeting, or cutting clean through.

§

Yet they persist.

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