She’s a winner
If she’s still standing
At the end of the bout,
(my brain recalling
Those pictures of her
With boxing gloves on,
And the parade of testosterone
All around her,
As if she would take them all on,
In anyway they wanted,
And I’m still jealous)
She’s a winner,
Even when objectively
She seems not
All the plans of mice and men
(as Shakespeare put
it)
Dashed on the rocks of reality
and out of such wreckage
people must rebuild or move on,
me outside the ring
feeling her pain,
even as I secretly cheer her on,
watching her stagger,
swaying like a punch drunk,
cringing at the fear
someone might strike again
and relieve her of her feet,
too staggered to run and
perhaps with no place to run to.
She must stand where she is
until the fog fades
and she can see a way to win
In a world where everybody betrays everybody else,
it is impossible to know who to trust,
even those she has trusted before.
In the end, she must
– as she has done in
the past –
rely on herself to survive,
stumbling forwards
but on her own two feet,
wary of those who offer kindness
with one hand and a stab in the back with the other.
In the end, all she can rely on is herself.
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