As is her style, she draws the first blood.
He’s got a survival kit: He looks the other way.
He has started on a very bad slope:
He’s damn too deep in the rocking chair.
This baby loves to call the shot
her silly lovers feign to play her spots
in a game of which she claims
she’s the kung-fu master.
Yes, he knows the bloodsport just as well.
Is there something cooking behind her fiery eyes?
Only a child’s fear of losing the centerstage
No stories there are but her own centripetal self.
Does she see a sadness in the coming years?
She lives for the moment, come hell or high water.
His life’s on hold; he ain’t movin’ out of fear.
Her face that would shake him
from his sleep hour on the hour
is now frayed at the edges,
dissolving in the mist…
He’s amazed – & frightened –
He does not remember her anymore.
III. The holy infidel
She has no heart. She is a hundredfold blessed.