The Fighter

Every bell became an orison,
Nothing but ringing ears and swollen eyes,
Preventing life from hope’s horizon
That sits like thunder in the skies.
 
Almost stigmatic; she feels his blows.
Each slamming slap of leather,
To lose is to win for they both know
They stand between the ropes, together.
 
Each register with its ringing clash
Is a birthday, holiday, or just a meal.
Every banging brutal bash,
Addresses what and why to feel.
 
Through the blood, he sees Mary.
With cloth and love; her soft embrace.
She wipes his face as if by Calvary
To cleanse the sting of her lover’s face.
 
With broken hands he plays with knife,
The meat is sour between cut lips.
He fights and dies to keep his wife,
And the fighter brewing between her hips.
 
In years to come his gloves will hang,
Condemned by rotting memory.
His mind still haunted by the crowd who sang
Each time he tasted victory.
 
Then when the mats have all been torn,
And sweat has turned to blood.
The gloves will once again be worn,
By his son, fighting where the fighter stood.