The rule we first are taught is not to raise
the blade until your partner masks himself,
but Maître's face is exposed, unconcerned.
My gloved and too-small hand is curled about
the grip: a toy-gun trigger. Follow me,
step back, step forward, cross the hall. The weight
hangs hard upon my wrist: I rest. The weight
is in the guard, not the blade. I sweat,
or weep in my mask's cage; in here, it's hard
to tell. Again, one-two, stop hit; control!
Manipulate your tip and you will win,
or if you lose, at least you lose with grace.
The lunges are nightmares he wakes me from,
corrects my pose; I feel my body's length
repair itself, from tip to counterweight
of my left hand. Sometimes the point will land
on target. Like that. Good girl. We both know
that I am here to win his praise. Enough.
The quick salute; at last I can relax.
We're going to have a party this weekend
at my farm, in Coquitlam. Want to come?
They grin and lean on blades, increase their flex.
They're laughing at a joke that they all get.
He leads me to the wire, and laughs at me
as I string up, test my tip on the floor.
I bend in the expected pose. We wait:
a judge we cannot see will fling us both
into the fray. En guarde. Vous prêtes? Allez.
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