Her Classroom Breath #2

tweens, twinks, milfs and cougars,
silver bears, foxes brightly shaved
and the babies, even-footed, holding
on at the moving knees—nearly
everyone has stood up
to watch the action in the dojo;
a few kids, and myself remain
seated, an arm’s length from everything
Arse. lycra, denim; deeptoe Compression’s
complete picture, this toned mature,
on polished hall linoleum, her leg veins
the isolated blue cheese
the boy’s mother packs in
the cooler with the foil lining
catching in the zipper. her pink
capture in sparse pudenda
is what I’m getting at here
as she pivots and squats, her gear
stowed showing me where
the world originates. knows
I saw, sees I care, and carries
the stare away to watch the heats
in senior boys. their tap-outs, the gi
-straightening, belt knotting, the bow
at match-end. they sit. then stand,
& it begins again. whistles and hand-slaps
and everybody stands up. so much arse,
gluteus primal-anal, this crown-opposing hole,
this supported by the expert role
of Solomon’s biology; the baring of,
the barring, that forbade Caduceus wake
in epochs demand re-plenish— spine-base,
prostate, mouth to bumhole, human-tubed,
breath-taste, young athletic cores
of gas & air, cheering on the wrestling
with desire from behind—a sort of knowing
what the lol she’s doing, the preteen—a
volleyball in stockings what an arse, collects
momentum twerking, reprimanded; alerted,
Mingus soon, his mother pumps a message;
he’s tying up his gi with boys somewhere
between believing super-heroes
marred with the religious problems
of abilities impossible to reconcile.
I watch him grapple others, grabbing
at their balls, lapels, holds and leg throws,
the fall-rolls, choke-holds restricted
to Cadets, the style of grace in defeat;
we compete with such good-natured passion
only what is barred us does it fetish;
the victor glows triumphant, he will get his
medal. The other kid is crying bloody hell.

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