Steel
A man with black hair laughs at me from the doorway.
He's amused by my rough way of working. I insist
that I'm not here, and therefore cannot be bothered
by laughter. The man goes away only to return
with a bucket crusted in ice. Put yourself in here,
he says. It will help you. I've been tamped down
and now love it,
God help me. The bucket's not cozy, the man
not friendly. I steel myself as he glances down, delicious
and dark, into the bucket as he swings me by the hair,
still laughing.
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