At the boxing match

the refs remind me

of 1950s milkmen

--white shoes, white socks, white pants

white shirts--making black bow-tie deliveries

of country butter and thickened cream

and each has his own

private signal for silence

for the coaches as corner men

must remain mum to the match

though the crowd is shouting instruction

one official

presses a single finger to his lips

like a sad librarian

another flips his hand

like a sock puppet talking

a third simply shows his palm

like a traffic cop suspending his glove in the air

and with each occasion

the thus humbled coach shuts up

becoming turnbuckle still

looking briefly shamed

the sassy child, the chastened son

the quieted student--these are something

these are much--but

your guard is down, but you are not busy,

you are not leading with your left,

you are not taking advantage

of an opening, you are not

listening to your heart, you

are not dancing, you are not

following through, you are

not watching for an opportunity,

you are not winning the day

with discipline--and even I

can see

how these young men

fall into fracture, into fatigued embraces

like tired tourists

how these girls

land a flurry of red-faced punches

their fists fluttering exhaustion

like the over-heavy wet feathered wings

of cold lake water fowl taking flight in the fall

"See how the girls

punch and punch and punch

much more than the boys ...

they have

something to prove"

the pretty pugilist

says from the sidelines

this mother of five

who took up boxing at thirty

to keep her life

less complicated by anger.

One particular ref

looks like a village barber

who hasn't seen the sun

since 1963

his hands drain from his shirt

like milk frozen while it flowed

his face

affects the pure white of the startled, the struck

and the blood-drained dead

he's like a mill man

flour-talced from head to toe

he should be talking town politics

to a turning chair

he should be sweeping up clippings of shivering hair

he should be singing Sweet Adoline

scissor snipping a cowlick

harmonizing and stinking of gardenias

but instead

he stands watching--focused on

four five pound white-faced gloves

flying like fat ghosts

in the beautiful body odorous ballet, the sweet

sweat stink of this ugly gymnasium

listening for the pop and sting of padded leather

that sibilant exhale

of effort making the fist articulate

I know

this is what the heart would say

were it not

caged in the ribs

and drumming strange wings in the dark

seeking a dangerous door in the bones

that springs wide

to the stillness of stars

for the fog flights of the unknowable soul

lost in the mystical con trail of our lives

we hear only one voice

and it is

our own

it is the voice of God

it is the singular voice

of the coach in the crowd

it is the voice of our mother

like a calf in a meadow

we follow the lowing

it is the lamb and the ewe in the pasture

it is the voice of our father

it is the sorrow of olives

it is the blue farewell

in the sound shadow of a silent hello

it is a glimpse of grace

a whisper of truth

what we'd say to ourselves

when we're quiet.