07/05/2011

I’m waiting for first blood
in a bruise-blue Chinese slit dress
I’m the kind of girl you’d split a swollen eye over
as the butcher tenderises the meat

I’m waiting for muscle to pound
for sweat to slip across a jabbing right hand
and a mean left hook to rupture
the vaseline greased eyebrow
then the sound and the fury
of the sight of first blood

the bright stain is potent and vivid
sudden and streaming to the jaw-line
racing breath with exhilaration
water swilled into gaping mouths
his bare back burning against the ropes
bloodied spit spat into the bucket
the soaked-in salmon tint of the referee’s shirt
the screaming girlfriend
the wife spilling her gin
and the mother’s swinging handbag
the huge bald oaf
with the detail of bulging vein
his brain
thudding under his skull skin
feet of clay stupid and not boxing clever

I am waiting for first blood
for Wilding’s glorious triumph
his proud brother shouts
“pure poetry in motion”
as his slack opponent falls to his knees
his arms cross his barrel-chest
as he hits the stained canvas

then the thrill of the referees slap
and count fifty seconds into the second round
Wilding raises his arm victorious
that winning gum shield grin
of a true champion

no modesty
and no apology
when he entered the ring
no fighting with one arm
behind his back
with no holds barred
he’s taking off the gloves
for a bare-knuckled
dirty fight in a cage

with pen in hand and a clean page
I sit here writing
writing
as if waiting
for the taste of first blood.