in broad daylight      

you singled out 

that smallish tree

employed your cache of power-

tools, red 

and black, humming

and sharp-edged 

went at it again and again

like kicking 

a woman

you’d already knocked to the floor

because you hated her

for not 

getting up

and when, at last, you lurched 

back

surprised 

to find 

the tool in your hands

hot and spitting

the branches in their pool

of leaves

the birds lifting away

like ash, you were sullen

resentful

of the ugly thing you’d made

Cindy Botha