Laura's chest aches on cold days from when she
played basketball in college, taking heels
of hands and brilliant backward elbows hell's
own number of hard times. Got good, she tells

me she got even, cups herself and says
no more, hands nursing her thick- sweatered breasts,
eyes wider than two wounded worlds, and wrists
bent under all the anger that exists.

I get to watch her. Thrills are the possessed's
possessions. Does she know I want her? Yes.
No. I suppose it must be obvious,
but she's remembering revenges, mas-

saging the souvenirs of hits back, as-
tounded opponents stopped like her, like us.



.

James M. Rawley

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