I grew up believing in the circle made square,
heroes and villains locked in choreography.
So when the biggest show in Oklahoma came to town,
I went like a pilgrim with twenty dollars and a pulse.
The hall was a museum of living myth.
A former world champion posed like a statue.
My favorite tag team sold shirts like relics.
And then I saw her—
a queen of the ring,
a name big enough to require lawyers.
I queued with the faithful,
picked a photo with shaking hands.
She signed it smiling—effortless, practiced.
“Do you want a picture?” she asked,
and the universe cracked open a half inch.
We stood.
She leaned.
I leaned—too much, not enough, wrong angle.
Nerves won. Geometry failed.
My arm brushed her breast.
Accident. Immediate regret.
Then—somehow—she leaned in closer.
A sound escaped her, soft and brief,
like punctuation, not language,
like she’d decided, right then,
to make this my problem.
And that was it.
No escalation.
No crime.
No legend born.
Just me standing there, stunned,
wondering if I had just
accidentally copped a feel
on a champion.
She thanked me.
I floated away.
My friends argued in the parking lot.
“Totally counts.”
“No way, doesn’t count.”
I said nothing.
Some victories aren’t wins.
They’re question marks
you carry forever.
Hailing from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma…
Standing 6’3”, 300 pounds of twisted steel and poetic appeal…
A veteran of literary warfare who has forced over 100 journals and reviews to tap out…
THE LAST BARD—
JOSHUA WALKER!
One Fall Review 