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The Under Review - Issue 4 | Summer 2021

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27

Rinky Dink

JESSICA GREGG

In his country, hockey players never fought.

It was in his gait, the upright stride that made him

taller than his teammates bent fist first over

their work at this patchy puddle jump, this

hose-flooded slick chute muted by speckled light.

Back when America was faded-jean beauty. Majestic loud.

Back when we were world’s forest and former factory,

and we smelled like dirt and pine needles. Aspiration

and gasoline. Chewed-down lipstick and French fries.

We never learned to say his name right.

He never grew tall enough to be a statue.

Yet blade to blue block to goal fest, it was glory

enough in a podium-stand collection of intramural medals.

Then the season ended. He couldn’t pack the trophies,

take the girlfriend who never learned his words

or prove the legends he knew to be true.

Now his hands itched to blunt and beat,

to make blood drip from the broken noses of fat

American boys and watch it bounce on ratty,

pock-marked ice that reeked of March.

ISSUE 4 | SUMMER 2021

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