Palm Heel by Natalie Shapero

from the Spring 2009 issue

Never do this, they said, in power boats
		without preservers, or
feeling for olive pits in the disposal.
Never do this: the packed revolving door,
the sign-off on the un-perused proposal,
		the cash advance. When lab
reductions went awry, the teacher raised
his goggles for a closer look, white coat
		rolled at the sleeves. He grazed
his thumb against a smoking nitrate tab

and did not burn. But, still. The mini-course
		in women’s self defense:
they demonstrated how to cock the wrist
in palm heel strike position, how to tense
the forearm, fold the fingers down and twist
		up. We’d only tap
our partners, mime the hit, knowing the nose
was weak. Correct trajectory and force
		could perforate or close
the airway; it could kill. Inside the slap

of night against the living was the burn
		of me against good ground –
he had me down in half a second. When
I strained and tried to strike, he wound
my arms behind my back. I slid, and then
		he pinned me, made a grid
of me, impressed in mud and motor gum
run down from the interstate. I could not turn
		 to raise even a thumb.
Never do this, they’d said. I never did.