In the minutes tumbling down to showtime or a fight, the reader and the fighter are at once vulnerable and strong. The likelihood of a letdown, a knockout, trembles in the wings—doubt flickers like a naked bulb swinging from the ceiling, slinging shadows on the walls. Yet these thoughts are garbed in iron-clad resolve; even if the performance misses the mark, the reading, the fight must go on. The reader becomes the reading, the fighter the fight. Having reached the impossibility of retreat, the body obeys the chest and moves one leg forward like a pawn. A bell dings in the head; the first word of my poem jabs the silent air.
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April 2023
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