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YVETTE_RAPOSO_0752
Training for a fight usually meant idle hands during down time, so I expressed myself writing poetry:
…sound of the bell, 
   skip of the rope,
  a trickle of sweat forms atop my forehead as my body temperature rises
         preparing itself for the onslaught of training.
my eyes are fixed as part of mental ritual, I’ve performed this routine before, many times, 
but somehow it doesn’t seem any more easy
the intensity is extreme, each time my limits are tested
    each time one more notch
    every punch one octave higher
ONE MORE TIME my coach demands.
I’m hovered over the last combination I just pounded out
sucking in air like a hoover vacuum, my eyes beg him for mercy
mercy for my aching muscles, my swollen knuckles
he doesn’t flinch…I do it ONE MORE TIME.
I step into the ring. My training resembles that of programming a machine.
Wind me up and set me loose, I look across to size her up but I don’t seek out her eyes, not until hers find mine to plead for mercy.
…sound of the bell,
my steps are ginger, punches precise, breathing steady
a trickle of sweat forms atop my forehead as my body temperature rises
preparing itself for the onslaught 
I’m about to feed her.
My body is my arsenal:
my feet follow my legs follow my hips follow my waist follow my shoulders follow my fists follow my eyes which are my binoculars, focused on her every move
my hands spit out bullets but it is my heart which never lets me down when it is engorged with plenty.
                            She is hovered over the last combination I just pounded out
her eyes fine mine, pleading for mercy
mercy for her rocky ride, her deflated pride
I don’t flinch, I do it ONE MORE TIME.
Yvette Raposo, 2003
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