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Wrestling Poems By Christopher Dizon

Christopher Dizon earned an M.A. in Comparative Literature from California State University, East Bay. His previous publications include Quite Lightning’s Sparkle and Blink, Blue Crow Magazine, The Riding Light, and The Midnight Circus.





Dark Match


He tells everyone “I’m gonna be on the

TV.” It’s a televised event in

front of thousands in attendance and the

millions watching at home. What he doesn’t

understand is that this is not a try

out, it is the try out, an audition

for the big stage of broadcast wrestling.

When he realizes it’s another test,

he thinks about the fans and what they won’t

see. They will never know how stygian

wounds bleed like invisible ink. All

injuries must be attended with black eyes.

Although they will never witness the

classified life backstage, they will love him.



The Razor’s Edge


is another kind of prayer, asking

us how incisions bleed a certain kind

of thrill, similar to standing in a

ring with thousands of cuts witnessing the

right way to lacerate a tribute: Hoist

opponent above your head, arms open

for public carving, forming a blood cross,

a crucifix of wine, a sacrifice

for the stage. Fans don’t know that every

outcome is a predetermined die-

section. He was supposed to win the match

and carry on the sharp sting of the mask,

a bladed legacy, of space travels

in lycra-spandex now eclipsed—wounded



Ladder Match


The key feature of this contest hungers

above the ring: treasure dangles outstretched,

taking the form of all you ever want.

A suit case full of money. A superstar

contract. A main event. A five-pound shine

associated with heavyweight gold.

Imagine a pinata withholding

candied dreams of championship glory.

They can be yours. Ascend stages and launch

an aerial attack. Take drama. Fall

sideways, cartwheel into canvas. Use

staged steps as a weapon and listen

as metal kisses flesh with stiletto

contingency. All you have to do is climb.






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