Because a woman who thwarts a man’s attempt to kill is always a rebel

Castanets cricket click

My father had castanets, made them sing,

Yet those same hands

Paint penetrates the surface, the rest inviolate

He could paint in oils

But that dexterity abandoned reason when

Horns moaning for lost things

His saxophone

Angelic on nonviolent nights

Still, that voice broke

Me for so long

And that one time

Round, small, on short legs,

She came just in time

Ruined his kicking aim

My head remains

Inviolate, though hairless

Not quite broken

And to friends, neighbors, lost loves

I say, my tools nearby,

I love fixing things