Poem #2, creative writing final.

[apocalypsos]

Okay, I think I have this one done, but like the haiku I'm open to suggestions.

*

Kiss With A Fist

Tight abs,
smooth skin,
those divots of muscle
toned and honed
Hold firm, still, strong,
a granite catcher's mitt
for a balled-up fist.

You think of Houdini with
each thump and whoosh,
muscle and bone against muscle and bone.
Houdini died because he wasn't
you, didn't expect a punch
at all hours, didn't see those
scarred knuckles comin'.

People compliment your whipcord middle,
your rope-a-dope stomach,
so you make up an exercise regimen,
one with fewer poundings, less torn flesh,
no bruised kidneys or bloody urine.

Whenever you claim yoga class, you lick
the forever taste of copper from your
lips, your teeth, the red-raw ridges
of your gums.

You're envied, your twine-and-wire physique,
your running-away legs.
No one ever asks you why you're running,
or in which direction,
or why you go back for more, more, more:
shredded skin, blue-black contusions, shards
of teeth like ground china in your mouth.

You'll throw the final punch one day,
your silent bloody answer.