In the waning days
of those years in London
I took up boxing. I didn’t
want to unload on some
unsuspecting soul so I
found a sparring partner.
She turned up, neck
tatted, face pierced, dread-
locked and strong as hell.
A Turkish woman with
East London stenciled
on her left forearm. Before
boxing she trained horses
in dressage and before
that was trying not to
drown herself in drink.
After an hour I was losing
my breakfast and last night’s
dinner. See you Wednesday
she said not discussing
whether there’d be an if. Thus
my living room turned into a
boxing gym. Couch the cut
corner. Not once did she knock
me down, but she could have.
I did that all on my own, using
my shoulder for the cross
rather than my hips, leaping
at the uppercut. Thinking it was
about power rather than grace.
I’d done this before, retreated from what
couldn’t be controlled by measuring
rage out in iron. One plate, two,
the stack. The infernal
music you play in a room
that’s mostly rubber and steel.
Thinking if I were just strong enough in my
body I could carry it all.
Making a racket. Skipping
rope. Meantime Dad’s at home
losing hope. Some muscles you
don’t make out of joy.
Then Carla shows up in her
car fumed in weed. Horse-
hair still on her hands. Like this,
she’d say, and stop a hook
right below my eye. Glove sweat
and wrap funk. Rope slap, foot
squeak, cut time, then out
on the roads. Flesh tumbled
from my body. My lungs
endless. I stopped hitting something
and poured my body into a form.
At my desk my feet moving. I began
running before we’d spar. …at, I don’t
work you hard enough? she said once,
catching me outside, still sweaty
in my trainers, then ran
me until I puked. What do you
want, she asked. Are you here
to hurt someone? We can do
that. I didn’t need to answer, I was
there to accept the world was
going to punch. To remember
it may not mean harm
but that’s precisely why I needed
to be ready for when it would.
We took to boxing on the roof.
The noise had woken a neighbor
who complained down the mews,
so the last spring, as the sky lost
the color of a bruise and daylight
arrived earlier, we set up
under the blue ceiling
of the world and threw hooks and
combinations, breath
drowning out traffic on the avenue.
I’d learned by then most power
came from my ass. But I’d forget.
Throw with my arm. A chill
spring morning I was hitting
one two, one two three, and a
voice comes over the wind
light as a falling leaf—
nah mate, just flick it, like this
and we both look up.
There’s a builder across the
way, footwork loose, dancing
on the scaffolding he’s
tethered to, floating
nonetheless, arms faster than
air. Like this.