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At the party the conversation
among the men turned to boxing
and in particular a fight most had seen
in which one fighter
after each round staggered,
battered, bleeding,
to his corner, collapsed
as the cut-man staunched the blood,
and at the bell
got him to his feet, pushed
him to the center, shouting,
"Go low! Guard up!"
which, at the first punch, the fighter
forgot, until at last the bell rang
for round twelve or thirteen, and he stayed
slumped on the stool, one eye swollen
shut, raised his head to stare
beyond the lights, sensing perhaps
life outside the ring, and said simply,
"No más."
As we paused to reflect
on his cowardice, a woman
across the room, having had
a few past a few
too many, blurted, "I've lived
eighty-six lives and remember
most of them," which brought
both conversations to a standstill.
"If I thought it would do any good,"
she said, "I'd kill myself
again."