Teach me, he said -
we were lying in bed -
how to care.
I nibbled the purse of his ear.
What do you mean? Tell me more.
He sat up and reached for his beer

I can rip out the roar
from the throat of a tiger,
or gargle with fire
or sleep one whole night in the Minotaur’s
lair,
or flay the bellowing fur
from a bear,
all for a dare.
There’s nothing I fear.
Put your hand here -

he guided my fingers over the scar
over his heart,
a four-medal wound from the war -
but I cannot be gentle, or loving, or tender.
I have to be strong.
What is the cure?

He fucked me again
until he was sore,
then we both took a shower.
Then he lay with his head on my lap
for a darkening hour;
his voice, for a change, a soft burr
I could just about hear.
And, yes, I was sure
that he wanted to change,
my warrior.
I was there

So when I felt him soften and sleep,
when he started, as usual, to snore,
I let him slip and slide and sprawl, handsome
and huge,
on the floor.
And before I fetched and sharpened my
scissors -
snipping first at the black and biblical air -
I fastened the chain to the door.

That’s the how and the why and the where.

Then with deliberate, passionate hands
I cut every lock of his hair.