I sing the wound
beneath my skin,
invisible by feel,
by defeat, as the victor
sneers smart words
and I slither in rage.

I don’t masturbate.
I’m not sorry.  I wait,
proud boy, for the day
that I see you blue
on the red floor.

My South. Woven.
Each yarn an ancestor,
each belle returned,
each stranger a spit
in a corner of a lit
MMA cage.