I want water hauled in wood,
stone stairs, a choice
between sticks and floor, to bloody
I could punch my way from a coffin.
I want cruel tutelage,
vendetta and a yellow tracksuit.
In the loneliness of my side,
in the wake of broken oaths,
I want to hear the bamboo fill
and empty at the last
look across the snow,
to be a lioness, to always win
the fight and call him mine.
On the striped green strip
between window and weights,
while the trainer counts to five and back,
I lift hips and hold, grit against serrated turf.
Given the choice between delivery
and death, I think, I’d choose to die.