first time
shy first time in the ring
coach has you throw
at her shoulder –
clutch of bared muscle
less intimate than face, belly
hesitant, your jab sticks on air,
taps like you’re asking a question
fists don’t want to hit –
every second punch falls short
even when she hardly moves
she tags your arms, ribs,
shows how to be hit –
the concept, shock of it
even in gloves and headgear
tears tense, ready,
you shrug like huddling
through a storm,
playing dead
until she sniffs air, moves on
she snaps jab
on your forehead –
light, but enough to wake
your fists from fear,
launch them hard and true
3 comments:
YUHS.
"ding ding ding"
an exhausted leathered fist is waved in the air by the ref who isn't nearly as tired as the boxers in the ring. there is a hush in the crowd, until a woman near the back yells - "that's my girl!"
(so, you must post these every day, my life vicariously depends upon it.)
Hey Kerry,
It really feels like you've got command of the language you're using here - the small words, the small stanzas.
One nitpick and then I'm off to bed: in stanza five, you write "You shrug like huddling/through a storm"
Like WHAT huddling, dearest Kerry?
Hey Kerry
I'm lax in my comments but I'm really liking what you're doing with the boxing series. My suggestion for these more narrative poems is that I really want some articles put back in. I found that when the poems tell more of a story, I wanted the flow to be smoother, to reflect not so much the punching, but the story behind the swing.
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