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Saturday, August 05, 2006

Myra's submission

Thighs -- CK Williams

The very great, very tall, truly out of human scale basketball player has been injured – "a deep thigh bruise" – and all his many fans including I admit me are worried: how can he play, as he puts it, at a hundred percent, when it hurts to walk, not to say leap: if he can't even leap, how can his team not suffer defeat?

I leave the sports page, return with reluctance to page one, and read – (I couldn't bear to before): a taxi driver in Afghanistan, a small man, five-two, arrested by mistake, hung by his wrists, and . . .
tortured: they don't want to say it, but tortured, by blows of his U.S. soldier-jailers' knees to his legs,

violent blows, countless deep bruising blows, hateful even to think it, for days, again and again, and his tormentors, instructed to do this, obeyed, because, they were given to think, this wasn't torture, torture is something with chains or flame: torture, they're told, "is something people like us don't do."

But then the obstinate taxi driver, who'd never confess he'd done anything wrong, because he hadn't, did, do something wrong, died, of blood clots risen to his heart from the crushed arteries in his thighs – his thighs, said the doctor who did his post-mortem, had been "pulpified," "pulpified!" like ground meat.

This week, with time to rest his injury, (a "Charley-horse," we called it when I played, it did hurt,) the very great player is feeling stronger: "I'm at eighty percent of my game," he reports to the press, and indeed his team wins, in a rout, I don't remember the score, but that's how the paper put it, "a rout."

C. K. Williams
Poetry Northwest
New Series
Volume 1, Number 1
Spring 2006

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