The boxer is the poet of the flesh.
Home is my mother’s voice.
Words marinate in this sweet air.
Tangle up with me like bramble. I leave marks.
Neighbors idling at property lines, smiling, bags of dogshit swinging like scrotums.
Laugh at the storm while preparing for it.
The poet is the boxer of the soul.
Leave nothing behind but a scent people want to keep.