October 13, 2022
Filled my gloves with glass shards
by Christian Anton Gerard
because if I can’t pick my fights, I can prick my skin and see
who stays for what’s in me. I can’t be less than dual four-barrels
wide open each Saturday night. I’ve tried. I’ve tried still.
Even then, in the still, it’s there. Fight’s over, and I’m still
a short-throw six-speed—long road, here to where. Each night
I throw a knife, miss the map so I stay and run this same old strip.
Them boys know I stole my 6-71 blower straight out the shift-lead’s
hands. Said I wrenched Michael’s Ford down Route 30.
I wrote some name. He saw my hands—Wrench in rose thorns?
Said, I play for keeps. He thought I meant pinks. I did sort of.
Shadow boxing’s fun and all, but there’s nights I need
to hit something’ll make me fall. Why else
I need another lead-sled except to bloody my knuckles?
Only man I lose to is me. If I’m lucky, I can drop me to my knees.