Bad Girls Club

On Monday nights I take a class called Bad Girls Club,

grunt and curse and exorcise what drives me to this

church for tough chicks without chatting. A heat wave’s got

the country by her throat. I keep fists up, focus

on alignment—biceps to forearm, boxing gloves

to target—ground my weight, jab, cross, uppercut, hook,

crunches, squats, burnout rounds like lives depend on it.

On the news, another missing girl body found.

On my phone, a well-meaning friend asking if I’ve

met anyone. When I recognize one of us

in a drugstore the next morning, I duck into

the closest fuck-up aisle. Tell me refuge won’t be

wrecked by admitting it exists: unholy herd

punching back, stomping like gods all over the ring.