The Ball and Chain

I can’t remember the stench of bleach 
or the chafe of a tampon shoved up my nose. 

My tongue has acclimated to the sharpness 
of my tooth, where I chipped it off 

in the back of a boy’s head. The other 
boy’s sweat-slick skin, his rabid panting 

behind my ear, his wet palm cupping 
the supple flesh of my elbow, his forearm 

girdling my waist, I’ve forgotten it all. I could 
still torque the ball and chain though, 

I could crouch behind you and feed 
your arm between your legs and muscle 

it skyward, where every pound 
of you would be suspended in the hot, 

thick air of the gymnasium and briefly 
you’d see nothing but fifty thousand lumens 

of gymnasium lights and the wire cages 
that cover them. Who could forget 

it was the ball and chain I used on the boy 
when I broke his neck. I remember 

the rigid silence as they collared 
and strapped him to the spinal board, 

the man’s deep voice that pierced 
that silence—Good move, that’s it, 

good move, kill him—and that swollen 
feeling when, for me, the bleachers 

roared and they held my naked arm 
high in victory.