Sunday Poem
JAB
It’s frank. The standoff ’s end,
pitch and gamble: a taunt. Shot
from the shoulder, the tightening
circumference of now. Oh
please. She’s bobbing
bravado and wrist wraps. Her guard
would let in a convoy of knuckles. It’ll be
a cinch, riding
the punchline into her
open mouth
through her forehead,
off her Vaselined
cheekbone. It goes to the head
like bad news, a word you wish
you’d never learned. Whore,
it smacks. Bitch. No good
cunt. It only takes one
to clear the way for all the hooks
and crosses you’re dying
to throw, screw
talking things through, touching up
the mascara. No more weeping
and gnashing in the change room.
Can you take it? My fist
wants to know. My fist
couldn’t hear you. How about now?
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