PUNK POETRY: San Francisco Kenpo Karate School for Women: Why I Quit at Purple by Morgan Ray

Torturous minutes in horse stance, legs

quivering in a converted Castro garage, 

quads burning like a welder’s torch,

feet pounding a wooden floor.

Kiai!  I yelled, then advanced, Kiai! 

I yelled again as I  kicked, crisp

snap of my white cotton gi as I struck

an imaginary opponent, sweat dripping

down newly my acquired pecs, unfamiliar

bulges I feared were breast cancers

not breastplate. Systematic aggression 

disguised as graceful katas drilled again 

and again to hone a sharp blade of anger— 

a defense against perceived threats

to my liberated womanhood. Belted triumphs:

yellow, orange, green, blue, purple—increasingly dark hues,

a progression towards lethality until the day 

I actually struck a woman, her defensive 

gloves failing to rise in our choreographed spar. 

My fist smacked hard into her face. Her body

spun like a paint wheel, blood-spattered walls,

a Jackson Pollack canvas. I froze, 

 

the tails of my purple belt dangling,

stuffed leather mitts hanging heavy 

at my sides, savage red birds, gorged

on their first and last fleshy feast.

--Morgan Ray