Victor Henry- A Poem

BORN IN A BOXING GYM

 

From a long line of mediocre middleweights,

You step into the ring, the challenger.

Blood spurts from a cut over your right eye,

Possibly a headbutt. 

His fists dance,

Constantly counter punching,

Zinging vengeful shots,

Popping your head back.

You open your opponent’s forehead

Just above his right eyebrow,

A stream of fresh blood flows,

His eyebrow flayed open

Like a fish you remember gutting.

When you were a young boy.

When you learned to put bait on a fishhook.

Grandpa’s fingers

Helping you find the fishhook’s tie.   

Evenly matched

In a fifteen foot ring. 

He corners you,

You bob and weave like you’ve been taught,

Knowing that you’re being tested,

As blood trickles into your eye,

You’re in a real brawl,

Because you can’t connect with your right.

You shield yourself,

Step back,

Sense a quick defeat.

And in a sudden synapse, your mind

Drifts back to the plains of your youth,

A pair of white sheets flapping on a clothesline

On a late windy, summer day

On the flat prairie of Oklahoma,

In the middle of nowhere,

Bobbing and weaving

Your eyes puffy and nearly closed,

You can’t see a thing,

Only a seam and slender separation

Between reality and fantasy

Which holds you together

Like lovers embracing,

Holding each other 

In a final clench before they divorce.

You jab, punch at a phantom face.

Throw more wild uppercuts and body shots. . 

For a second, just before you feel the blow,

Knocking the wind out of you,

You flinch,

Let your guard down,

Take a quick hook to the side of your head,

Get tagged, get punched stupid,

Get your bell rung.

In a matter of moments

It’s all over.

Your opponent steps forward,

Throws a brutal knockout blow.