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.