A Glimpse of Beau Jack

Philadelphia, 1946.
Night. My father and I are walking home
along a pavement raked by swirling snowflakes
whenever the wind kicks up. Having just emerged
from under the beamed shadows of the El
we cross to the Arena, heading home
—to mashed potatoes, sisters, downcast eyes,
anger and sullen silence—past the wall
in which a door stands open and I see
in luminous blackness hundreds of black shapes,
heads and shoulders, the sides of faces silvered
in swirls of smoke, the embers of cigars
glowing an instant and then blacking out—
far off in the black depths the source of light,
the canvas square of ring circled by kliegs
where a slim brown man who has a bigger man
pinned on the ropes is digging blood-red gloves
methodically, like a man chopping wood,
into his ribs, the white skin splotching pink.
Could I have seen at that distance the rocking
and ripple of muscle under the bronze skin
or did I just imagine all of this?
It couldn’t have been much more than a second—
my father was a very impatient man—
but there it is, as radiant as just now.
My arm was jerked hard, I was dragged away
wondering desperately who the man was—then
there he was on a poster, fists cocked, poised,
smiling behind his gloves. I have forgotten
the name of his opponent but not his name.
I loved him, and I wanted what he had—
not the jeweled belt, the title, money, fame—
what could they mean to an eleven-year-old?
No, what I wanted was the pride and prowess,
power and speed and grace, and even more,
fearlessness in the face of bigger men.
And that most beautiful of names—Beau Jack.

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