Prizefighting
$25 Cleaning Fee
For Vomit Or Blood
—the sign near
the gym lockers.
Under a lather
of sweat,
the ring’s
a demanding altar.
*
His father was a fighter.
His uncles fought.
They used to call
him Pretty Boy, now
he goes by Money.
In Vegas, he dons
mouthguards of diamond
dust, of gold foil, of crushed
hundred dollar bills. His ring-smile
spills immaculate light.
*
He leaves pyramids
of rubber band stacks
locked in a closet safe.
A bagman with cash
trails behind him; does what
he’s told: fists
full, he unrolls and counts.
Money rolls deep, tips
the blackjack dealer, never holds
his tongue, strolls off.
*
He’s made of fiction—
posts bail, posts up
in the gym at 2:00 AM.
The women’s charges
are fact. The evidence:
bruises and contusions.
The ropes’ friction
burns and wakes him.
A hook to the ribs turns
and baits him. Money
talks through
his guard. His art is perfect.
He doesn’t take ribbing,
wouldn’t give one
for all creation.
He refutes the charges.
I’ll beat them all, he says—
refusing to be defeated.
*
A shadow dances
in the opposite
corner: it wheels,
weaves, won’t wait
to begin. The bell
will ring, the crowd
will crow or rise
in tribute.
In his corner, father
and uncle fall silent,
smearing Vaseline
along his smooth brow.
Money doesn’t blink,
pays them no mind.
The applause
doesn’t last. Nothing leaves
a mark, or mauls
his slick cheek.
*
He fights for money.
Glory be to get paid:
Franklins, Benjamins
fanned out between
thumb and forefinger,
He boasts of more
to come. It’ll come
and come, money
that won’t come
easy, money
fought for—
money won.
His father beat him
when he was young.
Beat him with belt
and fist, gloved or not.
*
Memory, strongest
of the senses, potent
he drinks it—
elixir that remembers
when he forgets
when he is.
