sonnet for sam langford #6

the only histories you thought possible hurt, so your futures
were just bruises waiting to bloom until you saw bruises not given
by fathers for the first time. sometimes in summertime, boys gathered
behind barns after work & fought. there was no understanding yet
of the masculine form. the boys who hadn’t been beaten had fists
of sugar & threw punches like they threw rocks. you were happy
to watch until one day an older boy called on you to fight. you took
a handful of punches before you realized you could hit back.
that first punch was a discovery 		of surface. your whole body
radiated. it was a joy to be hit & know you could hit back.
your father couldn’t have known this was the lesson you took from his fists:
other boys were afraid their knuckles would split open like walnuts,
but you knew better. you had seen how much hurt a hand could hold. the
breath of that gift was like a projection, a double exposure.

Read more from Issue 22.1.