The Boxers | JD DeHart

The boxers lean heavily on one
another like two sagging towers.
My father’s face is red with frustration
and also leans forward, hand poised
on his knee, a glass of buttermilk close
by (how does he drink it?).
From the kitchen, my mother complains
about fighting. She wants him to let me
watch cartoons. But there are not cartoons
on anymore. Sometimes
the fighters jump like those hopping beans
in the check-out line, which I never see
anymore. They dodge and parry and thrust
like living swords. But this fight is slow
and bloated, the gloves seem heavier, eyes
seem thicker, but the crowd seems unfazed.