no room for all that I wish to store, box and tape, away. Things fight in cramped space/inevitably, a loser slips out before I can clasp my lips like a purse. Spilled syllables in places that expect silence or adequate decorum./ A brave white woman smiles sympathetically before I avert my eyes/ self-flagellate the shame of having too much and too few corners to discipline memories of too much to process/ too stubborn to dissipate graciously. Memory is pugnacious, and I am no Jack Johnson or Ali. There is no four cornered ring refereed and betted upon / no trail of flashing lights and nutty buddy shaped microphones asking, how does it feel losing, again/no bell to signal, break, temporary rest amplified by screaming coach—hit……before he hits….move, move/ no half-closed eye, evidence of well- landed blows, no lip puffed and blood-stained, they faded, discontented, to feet bottoms, calloused and speckled/only shadow tall slightly rounded blackened body, neglectful in corralling syllables strung together eagerly from slipping and sliding into places, unwelcomed, here in this space
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