For here there is no television
that does not see you, no suburb

Whose garage doors do not open
as men stroll out to speak

about the blows you took. You
are like so many Buicks on the

conveyer belts of Flint, splendid
and silenced. Who knows Duk Koo Kim

in Wethersfield or Allentown or any
town but Seoul? You are like the rains

in Las Vegas: fleeting, a memory
before the man can even think

to stop it. I saw you once against
the ropes. I heard a man say your name

as a joke. Duk your mother
is a suburb of a fist, her mouth

takes in the gun. All our mothers
have to die one day. I think I knew that

even then. Your trunks were golden
and the palm trees shook at Caesars

Palace. We are all so beautiful
with our face against the mat.

(Fall 2009)