He keeps a swazzle in his mouth,
rage with a flourish, twist the words
if they don’t win over. That’s the way
to do it. If I’m a sharp-tongued woman,
I carved it on my teeth, biting back
bashings in favor of keep-love.
All day I’m punch-drunk, but at
night, the ceiling's dark stage
waits for us: clown-grimace
characters, a baby, a stick.
We kiss and dance, then
fight again. My puppets; I win.