What was once beautiful to gaze upon
has been punched so silly that the gloves
are dented, the ropes gone slack with
punishment, the canvas discolored with
steam and sweat. The mere hearing of it
aches, and closing one’s eyes only restores
what is forever ruined. A peasant’s tale
in poor translation, inciting obscenities
from the inner rooms, knotty words
to chart the millstone’s plummet.
But promises bear remembering,
even and especially those gasped in hope
of punishment’s delay. For what was
once beautiful, for what was once
wished for, for every wistful whisper
of once sweet though now-forgotten names,
and always the expression, unreadable,
that gives away what is desired,
withholds what is feared.