Spit
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
Comments
Powerful poem, Sara!
Autumn Martin
Happy Camper & Poetry Lover
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