Slipping past your chest
Gliding underneath your arm
Skittering across the vast expanse of your lamé
Landing with a gratifying thunk
Dead center in your chest…but no light
Endlessly I
Bruise your knuckles
Whack your leg
Slap your shoulder
Overshoot
To savage your off-hand
Sometimes I
Navigate your tangled maze of parries
Find the sweet spot open
Only to fall…a quarter inch too short
Some fencers have
Magnetic personalities
Their blade within an inch or two
Of any valid target
Will land, and score
No matter how improbable the touch
My blade’s cursed with
Opposite polarity
Averse at any cost to
Closing the circuit
Making the connection
Ending the phrase
Given sufficient time, the Earth’s magnetic field will flip again
And maybe so will mine
Meanwhile, it’s a better bet to dedicate myself to target work
Extend, recover, lunge…
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