After the first few punches the neighbor boy comes over
pretending he needs eggs for his mother’s birthday cake,
then breaks down when you tell him he needs
an icepack instead. Inside, under the bare bulb of the kitchen,
you inspect the eye, ringed with black like an eclipse,
and the tender bruise plastered over his ribs,
dark red as nectarine juice.
Next week you see them walking together,
leaning into one another,
kissing, mouths meeting once, twice, three times,
until he comes back with a split lip, a peach cleaved
right through the center, bloody, which you sew up with twine.
And as you send him home, as you watch him,
hands in pockets, head down, you know the man will keep hitting him,
like a boxer who doesn’t know when to quit,
and the boy will keep coming back,
again and again,
no matter how many times he is sent away.