Bless the Boxing Ring

The crook & knot of hand, how you reached out & spun yourself 

dreidel in red dust until you rose from & lifted into armor, dissipating 

coin, rusted nail. Bless, this underworld of secret choir. Singing punches, 

sideways limbs. The dawn you saved away every day for a year. Spin.

Your shoulders that have not left you. Yes, you can do hard things. Bless, 

the hard things. Your first punch that landed. The lights in your own eyes. 

So small when you twirled in flattened fields, dizzied by sky. Bless the choice

to cross your own rope: 22 square feet of skin, stadium of your blushing heart.

Bless: the iron in your body, enough to make a nail. The salt fact of you. 

Your tongue, the strongest muscle you own. The flickering flame of your mouth 

that would not go out.

Raisa Tolchinsky hails from Chicago and is currently an MFA candidate and instructor at the University of Virginia. Her poems, essays, stories, and interviews have appeared in Kenyon Review, Muzzle Magazine, December, and elsewhere. You can find more of her work at www.raisatolchinsky.com.