running into the ring. Hulk Hogan's leg drop waiting
to quite his oooohhhh yeah brother
There was something coursing through my blood that
found solace in one man body slamming another.
I often thought jumping off a bunk bed was a good idea
—a turnbuckle in a cramped room shared with my sister
whose legs I frequently wrapped into a sharpshooter until
mercy was hollered or my mom’s smack wasn’t far away.
A submission move was a victory
—a small memento for a boy mimicking men who haven’t
stopped playing pretend
If we don’t understand what we feel
is every emotion also an opponent?
do we just continue trying to be men, pinning what
refuses to stay down for the count 1-2 - ………...
wrestling was the realest thing I knew until it wasn’t.
Hulk Hogan became Terry—Macho Man was Mr. Poffo
the ring was just a place to disguise yourself in any persona
—far from the characters you are born into
Why did I need that pain to be truthful?
Why did every wrestler tapping out make me grit my teeth
& applaud. Why did each tombstone the Undertaker finished
make me rise to my feet? Why was concern the furthest thing
from my tongue when Mark could barely walk
once the match was over?
If we don’t allow boys to understand their feelings
do we just continue to be men—flying off the
top of ropes hoping to land somewhere where we don’t have to
be ourselves.
Frankie Soto is a 2x award winner of the Multicultural Poet of the year. He is the author of Petrichor & the 2025 North American Book Award in the category of Poetry. Soto has been booked as a keynote speaker & performer at over 800+ Schools across the country.
