Apr/May 2008 Poetry Special Feature |
My Life as an Amateur Fighter
In my featherweight years,
my jaw was like the tongue
of a one-ton temple bella man kept ringing with his glove.
The man looked like my father
who woke me with a jump ropeslapping a concrete floor,
who taught me to stand up
to pain like maple trees standup to chainsaws, because
someone is constantly trying
to cut you down, he'd say.My teeth flew away like moths.
I floated. I stung. I learned to work
my heart like a heavy bag.I used to love someone.
We fought
with pillows becausethey most resembled clouds.
Our love was a collection of bruises
that bloomed when we touchedeach other. She was
like a washcloth pressed against
my cheek, coolingthe longer she was held.
I was 0-12, like the widow
who is only familiar with loss.I sat near a window opened
mostly to night, tonguing
a spot where several teeth once lived.I'm always looking
for things that should be
there, but aren't.