She has two rifles
a shotgun
pistols that pile
like her loose dresses—
a crossbow so silent
so sharp
it splits the air
before it flies
Even her pans—
cast iron more lethal
than the words I swing
And I—
all I have is a spoon
worn thin
from spreading too thick
She slices—
I scrape
She strikes—
I smooth
And somehow
we both meet in the middle
with open palms
taking turns
to see who flinches first