A Litany of Punches
He could take a punch with
a caveat
the asterisk mine, crudely
chiseled
into imaginary granite in
the
interest of full
disclosure. Body
blows, less than a Grant
if you’re
counting corporal
punishment
on the business end of my
father’s
belt or the drilled wooden
paddle
that kept the lines true
in eighth
grade drafting all run
together, one
faded flag bled of color, buried
in an unmarked grave near
all
the birthdays I’ve
forgotten, gone
because none of them
featured a
memorable shot to the head
along
with the cake. I’ll never forget them,
bookends to a shelf full
of mixed reviews,
the first delivered by
Dennis Ross a
short black kid,
miscommunication in
the lunchroom, he dropped
into his
stance while I swayed,
arms at my
sides, towering over him,
marveling
at the stars. Another school, years
later (clearly an institution
that’s
bad for my health) another
student,
mine, provoked by gods or
demons,
a pair of solid one eighty
round house
blows to the temple, the
first one
a sucker while I tied my
shoe,
the second punctuating his
declaration of independence,
me in the role of Mad King
George
dazed beneath my cocked
crown set spinning like a
mirror ball, a reign of
blows, a
monarch who could take a
punch*
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