I sit here on a wobbly stool
between rounds
with nothing left.
All of the advice is muffled
from my chief second
as he empties a bottle
into my mouth
and down the front of my shorts.
Cut man smashes a cold press
against my open wounds.
No vision.
No breath.
No legs.
Nothing left.
Somebody shoves the mouth guard
back in.
Ref clears my corner.
I stand.
I stumble back to the center
of the ring.
Some tomato can,
I think,
as my left glove taps hers.
The bell rings
and we enter the championship rounds.
This one won't see
the scorecards.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
No vision. No breath. No legs. Nothing left... Love the rhythm God bless you