No Title For This Poem

Every time I open up the page

“finally”

I think

Contemplation beyond shadow boxing

Shadow boxing with myself

And then I stop

because no words can describe the tumbling in my stomach

the stench of love tucking itself away to die

And when I’m feeling this way,

a way I think can be dangerous

and inviting when death is at the door then the bed then the kitchen then the living-room

until I am no longer seeing a deep-dark-space—-

that is withering into more of itself—

but there is a fist,

made from flesh

and bone

that is driving itself

over—

and over—

and—

over—

into the armor guarding the heart

And I still don’t know what I’m writing about here.

-Marquis Antonyo