The Boxer

A white wolf going in for the kill. An ambushing.

Sharp features, buzzed hair. His skin like jade,

his body rock-cut, tall muscles tensed like a violin’s

four strings. He makes them sing loudly as he

works himself up. His capillaries thrum with liquid

light. Coiled up like a Diamondback shaking its

rattle, with a half-cocked grin his flickering limbs

scythe holes through the air, kissing the punching

bag with ragged knuckles now rose-washed,

fragrant with the shriving red scent of iron.

Uppercut, undercut, left feint, right hook.

Primed with youth, adrenaline, and testosterone,

he carries himself like a king of Cambodia.

Kintsugi-seamed, his lithe body scissoring, now

swerving, glimmering with sweat and limned with

the daylight drifting in through dusty windows,

he fights his ghosts, his father’s razored voice

skimming his eardrums above the roar of the

sea, the murmuring hive of invisible spectators,

heart notes and base notes resounding in unison,

melodious with the pulsing ostinato of iron.

Uppercut, undercut, left feint, right hook.

Memories: his father drunk in deep nights, the belt

leaving his hands�"the welting sting of the bumble-

bee, its ancient yellow fur scalding his eyelids.

He thinks the white instruments of sex and pain

are enough to forget. He hates to be touched.

He loves to brawl with the high-class gods who

come slumming it in the neighborhood bars, looking

for girls who are easy prey. He makes love with his

knuckles and grins wide, punch-drunk and in love.

This is all he wants from life, the thrill of the hunt.

Uppercut, undercut, left feint, right hook.

Author's Note

Published by Apricity Magazine, March 2024
https://apricitymagazine.com/portfolio/the-boxer/

Reviews

[Fabian G. Franklin]

"And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame, I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains." Paul Simon I enjoyed your write about the boxer. Very nicely crafted. F.