The words are harder to dodge

than his left hook would be:

Hit me, come on pussy, hit me!

Players at the other end of the court

stop dribbling & form a ring

around us.  I feel them throbbing,

hear the hissing of that frenzy

building that begs for blood

but I know how easily an elbow

fractures when you straighten

the arm by the wrist & apply

pressure to the leathery flesh

protecting the bone.  He leans in,

shoves me with his upturned

palms & I wonder if he knows

that his eyeballs are softer than

eggshells & that a finger jab could

make my face the last image

he’ll remember for months

while the gelatin that are his eyes

try to heal.  He says, Hit me!

What are you a coward?  You scared?

I whisper it & almost believe no one

hears it but they do & all goes quiet:

Yes, I’m afraid—I’m afraid.

That moment when I must decide

to suffer or to cause suffering is quick.

I turn my head as he connects, my jaw

accepts his fist & I soften the blow,

& when I see my face in the fear on his

& when the weight of my knees pushes down

on his biceps & I cup his face with

my fingertips like it’s some   thing I’ve created

& the spit is gone from my mouth

I am afraid, God help me, I am afraid.

Photo Source: InstaBlogs

© 2012 Roberto Garcia