Self-Portrait as Haruno Sakura, Kunoichi of Konohagakure
       

I remember the first woman I hated—hair pink
as a sucked melon, knuckles bread-dough clean
under her chin. Her little knives. I hated her enough
to wish her dead (by ice! or opened-throat! whatever
so long as she's gone from the story) —but fear
is an easy-sleeved thing in a child. Hate a quick jacket.
She was a child, too—one who lived with me
in many bedrooms. A girl, growing, very much in love,
and early-spilling into the loose palm of a bra. Violent
in the way of twelves. Listen: this is who I wanted
to be. A woman who makes atomic the mace of her hands,
who pulps a man and howls in the doing. A woman
whose fist rubbles the bluff. A woman who bites the finger
from her forehead, saying through a mouthful of bone:      shannaro.

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Copyright © 2022 J. Bailey Hutchinson All rights reserved
from Gut
The University of Arkansas Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission