Cat meets mouse

by Rhiannon Williams

Years and years.
Subjection to the sphere –
but windows are rectangular my dear,
here, look at this knowledge of geometry.
Look at these skirts in cloth of rustling rage!
The particulars of the smash then;
one, the load.
Small, round, greying.
Two, the target.
Local and closed.
There the reflection.
It smiles, it reels with polite anger
as my wounds burn from the day Friday was blackened,
they throb like charcoal in flame.
Three, now, the swing.
In strength equal to that of my husband’s casual swings.
I raise back white grey flashes. Eye flashes. Signal.
Shards brush my cheeks,
glass lovers’ caresses.