When you spot a monster on the street
you must not scream.
That raw, wet ripping
of your throat is medicine for him. When you go
to park your scooter, don’t look up
if you hit the curb, act like you meant to, of course
he hasn’t flustered you.
He can smell fear
and nerves and can hear your teeth tremble
in their cages, don’t look up, don’t
look up. Don’t
move, in fact, just sit there
like you mean to, like this space
is your space, and if he can smell fear
can he smell war if you think on it? Smell
wet earth soaked with blood, smell battlefields
dusted with gunpowder, smell the soldier
of you? Be warrior,
be pride, and when
he shakes his umbrella
and leaves, his footprints
puddles of oil, only then
may you raise your growling head, and stand
in the doorway, your hand over your
shuddering heart, pledging allegiance
to the monster you know you can become
if you must.
