She knows how to draw blood, 

though that is not her vocation. 

In ju-jitsu one can break a brick 

with the blade of one’s hand, 

though that is not the intention. 

     It takes concentration. 

 

It walks arm in arm with violence 

but it is not violent. To outwit 

her anger she will stand for hours 

on one leg staring into the lake, 

she will practise forbidden techniques, 

become the instrument. 

 

      There is all the time in the world. 

  

In the space between, she will master 

jade wheel, broken scarf, rice bag 

sacrifice, how to strike both eyes  

with fingertips. She will brace herself 

against the materiality of words, 

use their own weight against them. 

She will seem to fly through the air 

whisking her silk sleeves, ruthless. 

 

       It is dance-like but it is not dance. 

 

Even a slender girl can use these moves 

against a burly opponent. The husband 

will not see it coming, this furious art,  

this onslaught of poetry. Biting his cheek 

is only how it begins, close combat  

for real. Her win will be huge, terrible.