Because Everyone Loves a Winner

Ibrahim wanted a fight. He needed to feel his fist smashing
the lips of Martin's too easy smile. All too easy, Martin's
petty thefts, Martin's behind the back
whispering, taunting. It was too easy

for this boy from the neighborhood to gather
his five-year friends and his cousins to follow
Ibrahim's path to the Grande Concourse
twittering, "You mama sucks off the cook
to buy yo dinner. Greasy Salvatore
. . . gives you family they meat" and the seven
five-year friends and Martin's cousins
echo loud laughing "You mama
sucks," as if it were dirty as if he
were dirty but even this isn't why
Ibrahim wanted a fight.

. . . . . needed
fist to bone and bright blood.
It would be easy

to bash that untracking eye
which never had to watch the horizon
for aid trucks and warlords.

Martin and his cousins, his flank
ing five-year friends finally rounded
that deli moment corner
right after 3pm when all
Cardinal Hayes High School
stopped.

It was easy. In the plum middle Ibrahim turned
in the eye of the crowd to face the little lash
of Martin and his little audience. In the plum
middle, Ibrahim turned. He turned to face
Martin, smug and shirtless Martin and Ibrahim's

blueblack fist sailed
like thunder right into the high eye
again into the thick lip
again into the upturned nose,
breaking off the gold tooth spinning,
bouncing off the sidewalk
into the irretrievable street.

Ibrahim beat and dodged until Mr. Castillo yelled

"I know this boy!" putting his arm around Martin,
pulling him off, holding him back
for Ibrahim to pass and for peace
on the walk home "I know this boy!"
but Mr. Castillo didn't. Wouldn't have
guessed.

Martin, tear faced and bruised
Martin of the goldless smile reached out and pushed
Ibrahim's hoodied back, aiming him for traffic.

* * *

Two blocks over Ibrahim's mother turned on the gas
and blew up her house, burned to ash the children
she made from her own body
because the cook paid his new waitress

a compliment.