The Maker The Charles Causley Literary Blog
Martial Artist by Lesley Saunders
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.