• Amber Shockley

Punch and Judy

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.


What's this poem about? Ask me.