2005 - Vol. 2, Issue 1

The sign says. Out back is a field
laid out like a rifle range,
with a row of arcade mallards
posted into bales. Behind the starting line,
sweat–suited women, dutifully cued,
take turns in a whistle blown surge
assaulting the ducks,
punching them with boxing gloves,
shouting names of those who've caused them pain —
critical parents, abusive ex–husbands, prodigal children,
siblings, boyfriends, bosses, neighbors —
attacked for a multiplicity of sins,
omission and commission,
as the beaked ones spin and bounce back,
grinning, ducklike and profane.

Hesitant at first, then with increasing rage,
they shout, "Take that, you amphibious slime."
"You borrowed my dress and stole my boyfriend."
"You hit me; you used me; you left me!"
"You knew the Braves' '58 lineup
but you forgot my birthday!"
"I hope your nylons run!"
"I hope your jockstrap rots!"
When the whistle blows again,
each returns to the back of her line.
Red–faced and breathless, she checks off a name.
Sometimes it lasts all day.

The workshop provides no rules for rage,
only a time and a place.
But, after a while, words change.
As decoys spin and creak, fury fades,
"I wanted you so much; I let you use me!"
It ends when each has called her own name.