for Haruno Sakura, Kunoichi of Konohagakure

 

“You think it’s your duty to save him from the darkness. That’s the kind and gentle girl you are.”

 

I remember the first woman I hated—hair pink

as a sucked melon, knuckles bread-dough clean

under her chin. Her little knives. I hated her enough

to wish her dead (by ice! or opened-throat! whatever

so long as she’s gone from the story)—but fear

is an easy-sleeved thing in a child. Hate a quick jacket.

She was a child, too—one who lived with me

in many bedrooms. A girl, growing, very much in love,

early-spilling into the loose palm of a bra. Violent

in the way of twelves. Listen: this is who I didn’t thank.

A woman who made atomic the mace of her hands,

who pulped a man and howled in the doing. A woman

whose fist rubbled the bluff. A woman who bit the finger

from her forehead, saying through a mouthful of bone:            shannaro.