So I was never polished stone,

never circled by worriers’ thumbs,

never carved a path in ripples

from one edge of a lake to another.

So my skin was pitted and my bones

gnarled. My knuckles swollen

like plums. So what? I made a battle

hymn with trash can lids and learned

to box bare-knuckled. My fists changed

the cut of men’s brows, and they painted me

red and purple in kind. I kissed them

afterward, studied the sheen of their cracked

teeth and pressed ice against their wrists.

My father never learned I was willing

to pay in blood to touch men sequined

with sweat. I learned: desire is not precious.

It beats your ears into puckered ore,

it pops your shoulders out of place.

To us, the ring is a mattress. With arms locked

around each other’s necks, we grind

under arena lights, every bulb a facet glinting.