Pugilist Poem by Francis Santaquilani

She woke up in the same corner
He backed her into the night before.
Still in her work clothes and wearing one slipper.
She stood up, paused, then slid her fingers over
Her black eye and swollen lip.
Then her one bare foot slapped the hardwood floor
As she turned and hurried downstairs
To make him breakfast.
Her deep sobs never left that room.
I came out from under the bed
And stood at the window overlooking
The sunny backyard.
I looked down and saw
Him doing deep knee bends,
Jumping jacks and push-ups
In his boxers.
His thin, lithe shadow entwined with the long,
Writhing shadows of the tree branches.
Like a fighter training with his sparring partner.