When she got really mad at me
Her hands would gnarl into claws
And she’d go for the balls.
Every time.
She’d start by scratching at my neck
Or my arms
But then, once I began to protect myself,
She’d try to grab my balls and twist.
She thought she had them figuratively
And then she wanted them literally.
I once got eczema on my neck
That began as a cut from one of her attacks.

Some of my sleights were real, some perceived
But over and over
It would end with her tearing at my balls
Like a woman possessed.
No woman did that to me before
And none have since.
I felt quite lucky she never got my balls
Until I realized
I got out of there with my balls
And my dignity intact but
She got everything else.

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John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online