illustration by Brian Rea
There was not countdown, there was no K.O.
In the loving ring of what we felt,
Without any gloves, we sensed a flow –
Above and below the belt.
The voices of time were our cornermen,
Saying: “Counterpunch with a caress on the chin!”
We tattooed the seeds of joy with our pen
On the silk of our featherweight skin.
We jabbed our fear that things won’t last,
And made it kiss the canvas,
Until it saw stars from the past –
The last crumb of doubt then left our mattress,
And fell through the ropes.
After the mandatory eight count,
Certainties replaced hopes,
And our triumph was paramount.
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