When I say spit, I don’t mean

the dentist’s mandate after the drill

invaded your teeth. Nor am I talking

about saliva and honest hunger,

or the skinny end of the beach

you hoped would go on forever.

When I say spit, I mean raw pain

that fills your mouth from a violation

embedded in childhood history. 

I mean the bucket of the boxing ring

and the fight you keep losing,

the one you need to win.


First published in Arc Poetry Magazine