By Ron A. Alexander

There are days when fighting
is pointless.

Despite the odds
despite all the obstacles you conjure
despite all your self-imagined frailties
and all the bamboozlement
you throw in the way

the world will not be muted
or restrained or even

No matter how fiercely you struggle
to deny the fact
the world will make evident that you
are loved.

As you traverse the pier, flounders
rise to the surface, offer you those sucking wet Hollywood kisses
fishes make to the air.

In the gracious wood porcupines
lay down their quills and bears
bless you in Esperanto.

In the painted desert chuckwallas
crawl out of their granite
towers to greet you, saguaros whisper
your name and rattlers

sing to you Puccini.
They will not be denied.

You will know.

A composition professor’s tepid appraisal of Ronald A. Alexander’s early poetry interrupted Ron’s writing for 25 years. Then in 1995, diagnosed yet surviving AIDS, he took a friend’s advice: “If you’re not going to die, write!” Together the two developed a novel of the AIDS pandemic. Yet, attending writer’s conferences, Ron would steal away to poetry workshops. Eventually he could deny it no longer. He had succumbed to poetry. Also by this poet: "The Kings River"