This started out long and ended up quite brief . . .

Three Rounds
1.
We are the gap in our teeth –
almost there. I might swear
your hands once were serene,
offering respite from the fervor of the night
we stood thick as a swallowed sob,
solid against the ring and the blood it would bring.

2.
A knock to the jaw
and we became real as the grocery store candy I continue to steal.
Under the dingy light, your laugh
bit into the rich taste of each sustained hit.
A drop to the ground,
the clang of a bell and serenity fell.

3.
Delicate as the fine bone
of your familiar cheek, sixteen and anything but unique,
blood crystallized into sugar –
sweetened the bitter taste of innocence erased.
The law of fissure
made its first and final case; there were gloves to unlace.

I don't know about this one. I don't think I do a very good job of capturing this experience -- going to my first fight and watching my uncle get hit over and over again. I think I was four or five and I still can't get the smell of that gym out of my mind or the stickiness of the floor. Everything, the air, the floor, the lights was thick. Incomprehensibly and wordlessly thick.