The Fist

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She raises a bloodied Fist

not so much in triumph

as defiance –

 Fist brittle-caked in

a shame so thick

it bleeds in blushes.

She shakes this cupped and twisted

gauntlet at very God,

and drinks rain,

and wakes to dawn,

and grows tired of the charade.

Ambivalence rips deep –

what if the sky’s blue

is for her?

The rain, a gentle nursing?

Unleashing the Fist

into a cup to hold blessing

might undo the last thread

that pretends to hold her together.

She grits her teeth against the

laceration

and pries. one. knuckle.

from its cradle,

saying good-bye to

the Fist.

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