Peace Over Power

Peace Over Power

With a certain deft, my son takes
his open left hand and places it over
the clenched fist of his right.

Peace over power, he says,
and then executes a flawless front punch
into the center of my gut.

Ai! he screams, then steps back,
brings his hands together against his chest
and bows. Not yet five and a reigning

orange belt, I can attest to his enthusiasm
for karate. I try to explain the concept
of peace over power, how one should never

be the first to attack. He looks up at me,
as if considering what I’ve said.
My hands, he says, are like swords.

I suppose I’m expecting too much.
Grown men have botched this equation,
his father included, in the name of self-defense.

The fact that he’s growing up in a country
at war only confirms it. Daily death tolls,
the aftermath of sneak attacks, the faces everywhere

of those who grieve the incredible: the evidence
is clear. You must control yourself,
I tell him, before attempting to control others.

He shrugs his shoulders and continues
his practice in the front yard: pinyan, rising knee,
palm heel. A car speeds by the house.

A breeze shakes through the leaves
of the big maple. The grass he tramples
goes on growing, wild and blind.


Dan Memmolo

Posted over on Lilylit
Review