Cambridge Old Boys

rugby season in Cambridge, last night’s training all vigorous and unforgiving under those floodlights, oranges sliced and quartered for halftime, the sharp acid juice stinging like fire on cracked lips.

then into the scrum for that final mad push, shoulders crashing into shoulders, stubble scraping stubble, and the full-time whistle blowing clean across the field.

now the early train to London, me battered and raw, body in sweet turmoil, every muscle carrying the deep onslaught of yesterday’s war, the pain rolling over me in waves that won’t quit.

I stretch, arms raised high in some quiet defiance, then flung outward like the crucifixion itself, head lolling on its natural gyroscope, rolling slow left and right, my eyes drifting down the aisle — newspaper headlines, a ladder run up a pair of tights, the soft ghost of perfume drifting through the carriage, a trace of red lipstick on a discarded cup.

and then I relax, sinking heavy into the seat after a long wild night, our first game in five weeks coming on like the dawn.

arms flung like the cross,
every muscle yesterday’s war—
the first game still ahead.