Taking It

I never remember the knuckles, though

his hand was bare, though their hands were bare.

I remember the impressions left on this skin, the

wilting and the welting. I don't remember the sound,

not one smack. I remember the falls, myself falling

to the floor or sidewalk, or against the brick wall

my head met after a push. There were many pushes.

Girls pushed but I punched. Pulled one

down by the hair and kneed her as my head bled.

Girls didn't punch until high school. I had always

punched. What kind of girl are you?

The kind who wants to live, I said, and I did want to

until I didn't anymore. But I wanted the leaving

to be on my terms, so I hit my father back.

He owned me like any good, country father. He

waited for a husband to tame what he couldn't corral,

to throw a rope like fingers 'round a neck.

When I missed a boy, fingerholds—I remember those,

and me making a fist wrongly, and punching

and I didn't mean to miss but to hit the line below the belly,

the beltline. W—— broke me in the snow

my first year North. I'm still afraid to say his name.

I wore shoes too thin for the weather (who had ever seen

such snow?) and had a Georgia lilt, like molasses

on a sore throat, sugared, raw, and he hated the sound of it.

He was black and I was black and I was so happy

to be in Detroit, and he aimed for my heart-

shaped mouth, my gapped teeth, my too-sweet tongue.

I felt the juvenile weight of him above me like snow after dark

falling steady and hard. I'm gone teach you to talk reg'lar,

and I stopped speaking at all. I kept my swollen mouth shut,

and a straight razor in my math book, and dreamt of a bat

cracking against his chest. A woman like me

with soft hands, not hands of the field, but

hands meant to stroke and soothe, needs a weapon,

so I studied The Art of War and watched boxing, and

where else was all this rage to go? Is this too dramatic?

Find another story. Find a lie. In love, body after body

fell beneath my own, though my own was broken,

and I made love like a sea creature, fluid as if boneless

though my bones would rattle if not for the fat I cherish.

Wouldn't you? And I grew to love the heavyweights,

myself with one in the ring. Imagine him punching

me, and punching me again, saying I'm sorry, so sorry,

to have to love you this way.