In My Corner

Fight.
I will, if you will.
I will take the punches, if you
just call my name, from the sides of the ring
that was built on the bones of the
the children who fell before they
got to grow up.

Fight.
I can make it, if
you pour absinth on my knuckles.
I will make the enemy eat my fists,
and fall. Fall in defeat, in disgrace.
His large arms will lay at his side,
limp, like his will to get up for more.

I will breathe in the smell of
lemongrass. That is what victory tastes
of; Lemongrass and it sounds like
Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah.
It feels like the pushing wind that ruffles
your clothes and crawls over your skin right
before a storm.

Fight
until all sound becomes white noise,
and your eyes blur, and your body takes over.
Move like fire. Flicker like the red that
snaps and burns, fast and beautifully deceptive.
He will go down, like timber, like cement,
and like a giant that lost his purpose.

Fight.
Each round will last 3 minutes.
Each blow will be for you.
Each drop of blood will be proof,
proof that I am in your corner, as long
as you are in mine.
As long as you are in mine.