by Aldo Giovannitti
The woman, who strikes the man.
The woman, who fractures the jaw of the man.
The man’s jaw, disassembled.
The man who retracts; who lies on the ground.
The bar of steel, who strikes the tile
with the strength of her own weight only,
tracing a line perpendicular, from the woman’s hand.
The hand, who’s stretched open.
The tiles’ grout lines who come alive slow,
reticulately drawing themselves round the man.
The woman, who regards the man,
who regards a point indeterminate on the ceiling.
The jaw of the man, inarticulable.
The jaw, who attempts futile articulations, intermittently.
The woman, who strikes the man.
The eyes of the woman; the room.
The tiles, who’ve fully absorbed the impact of the steel,
who’ve fully absorbed the impact of the man.
The jaw of the man, entirely inarticulate.
The woman who recovers her nudity,
as the man’s eyes land with no intention on the ceiling.
The tiles’ grout lines, drawing themselves
at a pace progressively slower,
entirely unnoticeable by the woman, who retracts,
who reaches for the handle at her back.
The woman, who opens the door.
Aldo Giovannitti writes about shifting perception, moral ambiguity, and transformation. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, Dialogist, and Does It Have Pockets, alongside essays in The Diplomat and South China Morning Post. He is a member of The Poetry Society and PEN America and is based in London.
