Saint Rose, thin and sharp as wire,
the shaved head of a penitent,
dark green eyes staring the demon down.
Petite body made hard and angular,
like Saint Joan, femininity washed off
to make her iron and fire for the fight.
The fight is a moment away from the war,
the chain link octagon to beat back demons
and the gnawing hunger in her gut.
The war inside her and the corrupt world outside,
The demons sinking fangs in every tender memory,
the touch of her man, the fury of the fuck, deathlike silence.
Focus on the other woman, the fighter coming for her,
the punches and kicks and splattered blood on the mat,
the rage to win a battle that can be won.
Afterwards, right eye swollen shut, nose broken, bloody,
her skin radiating exhaustion and echoing pain in every nerve,
her head in her hands as her man kiss her buzzed head.
The fight is over, and she beat back the other fighter,
but the demons still coil up close in her dark, broken heart,
fangs sinking venom in ever softness, kiss and touch.
The little chapel in the chateau she and her man rented,
candied glass, musty and lush darkness, dim light,
impassioned Christ on the cross, eyes turned to His Father.
After the fight, after the pain has subside into dull warmth,
her wound cleaned up and tended to, she prays, whispering
beneath the anguished Christ, for strength and deliverance.
In bed with her man, the fury of the fuck, the hunger for touch
and for pleasure and to escape the confines of this too tight skin,
this prism of time that makes rainbows on the wall in spring moonlight.