Cut

It wasn’t a man

That knocked me down

With the thrill of a slice

Of my will.

She was mannish,

Chilled, flung

Her will across

Mine then laughed

At my shock, when she

Gripped my neck while

Lingering over a request

For the evening meal.

Later I sliced a tomato

Close to my wrist.

The door was open.

She had warned me:

Never shut it against

Her. Otherwise

I was free to come

And go. Maybe she was

Right: I was zero

To the bone. Meanwhile,

I had left the hose

In the pond. The goldfish

Cowered in the reeds.

Whose side were they on?

I am ill, I thought,

Slogging across

Soggy green.

If I bow any lower

I will be looking up

At moss.