A Fighter

A fighter’s hands
are fast and hard
Four little hills
criss-crossed over
with white peaks
and valleys unblemished
or sometimes violet
and maybe swollen.
The digits are long
and a little crooked
from being broken
1000 times over.
The nails are short
chewed, or cut
to not bite into
clenched fist’s flesh

A fighter’s face
is cold and blank
a gash that rarely gapes
to utter sound
or wind
if it is not silent.
Askew is the ridge
broken 1001
times over
favoring left,
the divide uneven.
Skin never smooth
always marked,
always shattered
like the earth
of a clawed beast’s trail.

But the eyes…

For all the world
any other’s,
but closer:
Barren, though
never empty.
Cold, though
never numb.
No feeling, though
never without remorse.
No lasting imprint,
though never
a forgotten memory.
Always open,
always hurting,
always waiting,
never the same.

A fighter has
a killer’s eyes.