At one hundred and eighty pounds
I was the biggest punching bag
you could acquire. You seduced me
with the strength of your club-
like hands, massaging ounce after ounce
of cunning love into the open pores of my back.

Over two years you threw me out and asked me back
more times than you kissed me. You’d lock me into the pound
of my scarred heart by stitching me up after an ounce
of time and not letting me heal on my own, afraid I’d pack my bag
for good and leave you to prance around at the club
in hunt for another scapegoat to replace me.

I was confident and cocky before I let you break me,
a fresh man just released from the closet of looking back
in fear. Yet I was lonely and needy. My friends and high school clubs
were left behind and I was always reading Ezra Pound’s
An Immorality, yearning for love and a whole bag
of sappy clichés. And when you showed up with that ounce

of pot and smiling like the devil—the only ounce
of selflessness you ever showed—I thought you’d complete me.
I’m still haunted by the night we rolled up in the sleeping bag,
under the canopy of our oak tree and I said “I love you” back.
The three words scribbled in air a binding signature that pounded
over your ear-drums in agreement to join in on your club

of two. Permission to sculpt me and claim ownership at the club
on those few occasions I persuaded you to go and never once
going without you in fear of hurting you. You pounded
it into my mind: better to ignore my desires, than have you mad at me
and spitting your accusations of infidelity for going behind your back.
My friends saw you like a neon sign but I was blinded by the sandbags

I used to block out reality. I made myself your punching bag.
Each time I opened my mouth, I molded a club
for you to use against me. You never struck my back
but scars remain in me as reminders. Once
I left you I bloomed from the ripped earth around me
as an experienced man that can’t be pounded

anymore; our clubbing days have past. Your bag
is retired and the band of oppression you gave me is pawned.
With no ounce of pot or “love” will you ever get me back

03/20/2005

Posted on 03/21/2005
Copyright © 2024 S. Pelham Flood