I knew a kid
in school
whose dad wouldn’t
let him eat
some nights
during wrestling season
and if he failed
to make weight
purple-green
would bloom
beneath his eyes
he called me
once with a gun
to his temple

I saw a young
man in his singlet
heave as one of
the white many
referees in
his black life
ordered scissors
to his dreads
a few racists held
on to their hoods
the lynch mob
salivated at
the chokeholds
of metaphor
the microcosmic
headlock

the win
is not
about
the
win
the loss
historic