Men taunt
the welterweights.
Bar lights redden
their faces
and ours,
my lower lip’s
strawberry
Chap Stick
inside your mouth. Men jeer
and I almost hear
my father
before he’d swing.
[Don’t fucking close your eyes—
they won’t go away.]
We pivot
from our stools
and sidestep
to the bathroom:
a urinal
and a single stall—
its latch you click
behind us. Men jeer.
Your beard feels like gauze
around my fingers.
The urinal flushes.
[Always look forward.]
Staring through the stall’s slit,
you hold my waist
close. [Stay
light on your feet.
Move. Move.]
We slide
away
from the door.
[The fucking body.
Find an opening.]
Unbuttoned shirt,
belt loosened,
lowered
mouth, balm
for the swelling.
[Go to the body.]
Our tongues poised
gloves,
nothing’s limp about us.
Your thighs
are punching bags
against my lips.
Your waist swings
toward me
between each breath.
Your pulse quickens
on my tongue.
[Swing first. Swing fast.]
Upper cuts,
busted lips,
gloves against skin,
whispered stings,
men made my body
percussive—
ringside bell,
drumhead,
bare-knuckled fortes
now pianissimo
in your enswell hands.