Combat Zone

So I’m pounding
down the street,
reveling in my own
flame,
soaking up the day,
dreaming of the sky,
letting the gorgeous
glimmer of spring
polish the stones in my eyes
when this
guy,
this boybrat in
big pants with a
big voice
and a big chip,
up his ass,
yells:
DYKE.
As if I’m not aware
that my hair’s not
regulation length.
Whirling and screaming,
the smoke starts streaming
from my ears,
bathing the banshee
in me,
and I think,
"there are some people
who just don’t get it."
So I shot him.
Ha.
Laughing like a shot
in the dark,
I just turned
my cheek to the sun,
scratched holes
in my own skin,
and went home.

--Gretchen Keer