Sparring
Too poor for Vaseline, they spread cooking oil
on my nose and forehead.
At first I swear
they want my face
for themselves, as they study it every
chance they get.
they want my face
for themselves, as they study it every
chance they get.
They gamble money
porn from the Cultural Revolution—
the village beauty melting iron pots
porn from the Cultural Revolution—
the village beauty melting iron pots
down to scrap metal in a red bra
and underwear. Nothing sacred here
wants to be sacred anymore.
and underwear. Nothing sacred here
wants to be sacred anymore.
Scars decorate their faces like arrow feathers,
a sprinkling of incense ash
seasons our white rice.
a sprinkling of incense ash
seasons our white rice.
Every night we wring the sweat
out of our only shirts
out of our only shirts
list the names of men
and what we did to them.
and what we did to them.
In a fight the question
is never what but how.
is never what but how.
How do you beat a man who refuses to rise
from a puddle of his own blood?
from a puddle of his own blood?
How do you protect yourself from another’s hands
with your own?
with your own?
My sparring partner lies back, dancing
to his own music,
to his own music,
waits for my hands to drop below my jaw.
Some days they are gentle.
Some days they leave me concussed, bloody.
Some days they leave me concussed, bloody.
I stumble back to bed, lie on top of the sheets,
dripping sweat.
dripping sweat.
Somewhere, one of them staggers from bed
to bed, blindfolded, naked
to bed, blindfolded, naked
his arms and chest still wet
from a shower, muscles like rainclouds
before a storm.
from a shower, muscles like rainclouds
before a storm.
Hands stretched out before him
he laughs as he searches the room
for my body.
he laughs as he searches the room
for my body.
