after the eight count,
and the bell dings,
I get up from the canvas
and stagger back to my stool.
my corner man
asks me if I can go on.
do I have anything left.
anything?
I spit out my mouth piece,
drool out a pint of
blood, saliva.
someone pours water over my
head to clear my eyes.
they suture up the cut on my
cheekbone. whisper encouraging words
into my cauliflower ears.
I look across the ring.
she's tired too.
beaten. she's weary.
her eyes are blackened.
her legs limp
as she rises at the bell.
one more round I say.
standing, slapping my gloves
together.
one final round of love
and then i'm done.
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