Trigger Warning-  Sexual Assault, Domestic Abuse

The boxing bell echoes in the quiet
while his hands, those rugged and freckled
buckets for cinnamon whiskey and beer,
boxing gloves that always strike,
nestles the bottle opener against his next drink,
the last still half full, stale and warm,
and his opponent slumps against the suede cushion
that marks the boundary of their ring.

The rusty bell sings to her battered ears
like the distant, warbling chirps of early morning blackbirds
and she wonders if they can hear her too.
The bells confess the end of another round
but the hits have left her lips bruised, eyes swollen
with tears. Disoriented she finds another round thrust
upon her.

She cannot feel the words that slip and slide
down the tip of her tongue to land at his feet
Is it blood or spit or dignity
that she’s dropped? Will he make her clean
the bits of herself that spill out in the fight?

Those creeping, speckled hands tighten around the neck
of the bottle, push the smooth glass into her hand
gentler now, she’s surprised by the change in tactic
and falls into his trap. Another sip decides the match.
The knockout tastes almost as bitter as his lips.