Right at the down stroke, with all your weight thrown
behind the blade, my arms raised to avert
the stroke, there’s a quick blur, pale like bone,
from two small fists, and the front of your shirt
(awkward) implodes. “Witch!” you gurgle; the way
schoolyard bullies splutter when at last laid
low. We love our movies about gun-play
but the thought that a girl could dodge a blade
or punch a hole through ribs is called bollocks.
Physics baffles us. My rain-reddened fists
unflex. I exhale, luster, turn elsewhere.
I tell you of Doc Martins and mohawks –
– of a dim slip-of-a-thing with thin wrists;
one who crackles, like dry-ice in the air.