Steve Denehan

It took me forty thousand punches to realise
forty thousand too many
sure, I landed a few, enough to take me to this ring
but he is quick as light and made of iron and his punches
his punches come again, and again, and again

​

the fists of my father, my mother, my schoolmates, of God himself
the glancing blows, the blows of the children I saw for half an hour
last Christmas eve

​

I am winded from two body shots unseen
I disguise it
but he knows, I look in his eyes, he knows
he comes for me and though the ring is an infinite thing
I can find no place to hide

​

then, an opening, a tunnel for my right hand and
I watch my fist blur toward him and
feel the contact rock the columns of his temple and
he is dazed and he is mine and his eyes look through me
and I call upon that old right hand one last time
the hand that signed my title deeds, my wedding certificate
my divorce papers
the hand that held my babies, that held your face before that first kiss
my sledgehammer, my bomb
but, it is so heavy now
and the fuse won’t light, and then, I know

​

two seconds pass
two seconds that will stretch over all my days
two seconds when it was all there, another world
two seconds when I betray myself, as I always do

​

and so, I wait, with nothing left
to get what I deserve and when he comes
I do not run, and I am baptised in a flood of fists

​

I fall through the roar of the crowd and am caught
by the blanket of childhood
the lights above are so bright, and so pure, and just beyond my reach

​

I lie on my back and watch dozens of moths
in frenzied compulsion
flying head first into the lights again
and again, and again