Struggle

She dropped the act
and swiftly attacked,
sliding the dagger
from her garter.
It flashed silver
briefly, moving quicker
in the darkness
with an inaudible hiss
through the folds
of his robe.
And there beneath
the cloth it would meet
his unprotected skin.
But the thin
blade tasted no
blood, thrust into
nothing, slashed only
the robe’s weave.
For the man was not
asleep upon the cot
in the night-encrusted room.
Wracked by June
fevers he had stirred
incessantly, his blurred
consciousness never fully
dampened into sleep.
The sheets in sweaty creases
swaddled his limbs. Pieces
of portioned moonlight illumed
his arm. The nocturnal sounds exhumed
insolent memories.
And like virulent flies
molested him always.
But in a moment’s space
when his breathing was still,
the delirious summer ill
giving him sun-edged clarity
between heat-induced insanity,
a shadow tinged his wrist
the way a snake’s tongue flicks,
swift and silent.
Only instinct sent
him backwards, escaping
the shimmering steel scraping
his garment. He was
against the wall, the buzz
of delirium poured
from him. The torrid
heat momentarily forgotten,
he leaped from the bed, dropped and
rolled, the gritty boards
emitted raspy chords,
impatient music of her
small weight moving quicker
than a striking snake,
of his heavier form, awake
and fully aware now,
his reflexes rapid. How
they fought in the snatches
of moonlight, each watching,
calculating the implied motions
of the other, how their positions
mimicked that of the eagle
and the cobra. Eyes seeking meager
outlines in the dark.
She had made no mark
until freeing the knife.
She had been the life
of the vine, without sound
but constantly moving. She found
an opening, darted forward
but her blade scraped the board
wall, slicing the dark where
the man had been. A stair
creaked, loud even in their
battle. She froze. Who was there?
She was in shadow, opaque,
allowing no light. But the squeak
of the stair was silence to him
as he rushed to pin
her where she hid.
She slid
down and to the side.
The door latch was being pried,
and she heard every rattle
of the metal on metal
with empty ears.
At the wall the mirror
picked out the door frame,
the wiggling knob. The latch came
with a ratchet, snapping free.
The knob turned fully.
Her head was yanked back,
his hand dealing a slap
that jarred her inside,
but her arm swung wide,
the dagger aimed for his chest.
But the light bulb dressed
the barren room. Filling all
the unseen regions, the white wall,
bed, rumpled sheets, window,
streaked portrait, snub-nosed pistol
firing, firing, firing. The lead
bullets shrieked, blasting into the head,
thrashing her away from the man,
her hair left in his hand.
He was frozen in time,
his hand still trailing her fine
hair, his robe whispering from the draft.
He knew the woman as she laughed,
knew her from the glinting gun,
from the way her face twisted all at once,
from her brushed-back black hair,
the way she cast him a contemptuous glare,
he knew her well.
The blood on the white-washed wall
oozed quietly toward the floor.
Crumpled at his feet, four
fingers grasping motionless at naught,
his night time opponent had caught
every shot in the face.
At the back of his throat a taste
bitter and brackish swelled to his tongue.
His face felt numb.
Only thirty seconds had gone
since the dagger had dragged him from dreams.