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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.