- Light flyweight
I do a summer job,flaunting the "Round 2" signfor the ring. I never wear thongsor wink. The boys swing at musk airall butterfly, but where the hell's thatexalted bee? All July, police play gamesinvolving pepperspray against boys with frigidfathers but in this ring, no boyis born of any man who wintered him. One suffersuppercuts, works a warm yellow inthe loser's briefs. Another sprains ankles andsometimes eats his water hard to bemore a feather. My half brother knocks meinto a pool all clothed 'cause I nickname himMuNappy Ali. My joke makes his penisjump but he hates being likened to the niggawith Parkinson's–paralysis reminds himof joints, then "joint" reminds him of custody. I wonder, doesan opponent's red glove seem likea stoplight benighted when it speedsat his coral lip? Is carpal bossing evercaused by a need to be whoopedinstead of whooping? When my boysaren't turning white boysturquoise they drive Coke trucks tokeep the gas and livingdaylights on. Once I get my license I'll peer upfor sweaty flashes of them on boulevards, butnothing. Real Truckers are blond mops, bluesights, unfrisked, paidwell– you know that. The open road is a bunchbut it's not that juvenile craft of rope caging a mat, [End Page 139] or the smell of Funyun breath knocked out ofone boy and jabbing towards the famineof another. [End Page 140]
Courtney Faye Taylor is a winner of the 92Y Discovery / Boston Review Poetry Prize and a graduate of the Helen Zell Writers' Program at the University of Michigan. Her poetry appears in The Kenyon Review, The Adroit Journal, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere. Find her online at courtneyfayetaylor.com.