MORGAN

The waiting is the worst. The hour before the fight.
I am ashamed for being so
Scared

He sees it. As he sees everything.
If you not scared, he says, it’s time for you to stop.

But still, the waiting
Is so . . .
hard.

So he sits with me.
Facing me.
Slowly wrapping my hands.
Nimble, gentle movements. Serene.
Breathe, he says. Just breathe.

Toothpick in corner of his mouth.
Never shows emotion. An occassional smile flickers;
Ocassional mischief.
Nothing more.

In our long van rides across the countryside
We would talk.
Nightime excursions to
Dusty towns.
Past the grey mills.
The quiet farms.
On our way to the next fight. And the next.
You kids don’t understand, he says,
That a piece of me dies each time you fall,
and don’t get up, with your head high.

A picture is taken.
A moment frozen in time,
Between rounds.
I am overwhelmed. Overmatched.
Never seen someone so strong, so fast.
My breaths coming fast.
inandout. inandout. whatthefuck.

He slowly kneels down.
And rests his forhead against mine.
And smiles softly. Howyoudoin’?

inandout. inandout.

I’m going to stop the fight, he says quietly.
And I freeze. And my eyes go wide.
No. no. Please no. Anything, but that. Never.
He picks up the white towel. It’s ready, he says.
You better get busy then, he says.
He’s not smiling now.

When the fight ends. And they raise the other man’s hand.
I close my eyes, and take in the moment.
And life is wonderful.
I fell, and got back up.

I walk to him.
And he takes my head, and brings it to his.
Congratulations, he says.
You done good.
And he grins.
And so do I.

This is why we fight.

-jason