The Nail in the Boot

Gin and tonic in hand, I sit,

trying to write of love, of life—

but his voice, loud and boisterous,

shakes the quiet, rattles my mind.

A large man. A presence. A weight.

The drink takes hold,

I’m feeling bold.

With my father’s voice behind my tongue,

Oi! Ye cunt, keep it down!

Some of us are trying to think.

He blinks. A pause. A shift in air.

I see it now—I’ve started a row.

As quick as I stand, he has me,

pinned against the wall, a pillar of flesh.

But there’s Scotch-Irish blood in me,

the fire of a people crushed under boot.

I catch his finger, set my roots.

Snap. Crack. Squeal.

I bite his ear—an orange to be peeled.

Blood spills, the violence is fun.

And in a breath, he knows.

**I have won. **

I am the nail in the boot,

sharp, intentional.

He steps back,

bloody ear in hand,

a big man knowing fear—

perhaps for the first time.

As he walks away,

I wait for the lights.

**The boots. The chains. **

I embrace my fate.