Bad Girls Club
On Monday nights I take a class called Bad Girls Club,
grunt and curse and exorcise what drives me to this
church for tough chicks without chatting. A heat wave’s got
the country by her throat. I keep fists up, focus
on alignment—biceps to forearm, boxing gloves
to target—ground my weight, jab, cross, uppercut, hook,
crunches, squats, burnout rounds like lives depend on it.
On the news, another missing girl body found.
On my phone, a well-meaning friend asking if I’ve
met anyone. When I recognize one of us
in a drugstore the next morning, I duck into
the closest fuck-up aisle. Tell me refuge won’t be
wrecked by admitting it exists: unholy herd
punching back, stomping like gods all over the ring.
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