Sport 37: Winter 2009
On the door at Bluenote
On the door at Bluenote
get out here now
you fuckin whore
before I smack you
in the face and shatter
your fuckin jaw
and make
an example out of you
bitch
baby settle
down did you hear that
I'm so embarrassed
I'm so sorry
what are you selling
how much for the CD
shit I don't have any
money on me
sorry baby
I'm so sorry
and embarrassed
you had to see that
She's standing behind me with her hands
on my shoulders. I've never been punched
in the face by a man. Something would break.
He has large arms. If I had to reach up and stop
blood, if the bouncer pulled him off, I'd be famous.
His girlfriend still holds my shoulders. She's sober
and doesn't sound scared. It's not your fault,
I tell her. She looks at me with pity.
Natasha Hay punched me because I fell into her
at a party. There was more to it than that, I think.
She said something like, fuckin' bitch I'm gonna
get you, then got me in the eye. I wish I hadn't
cried. It wasn't the pain that made me; it was the
hatred, which I hadn't earned since primary school.
Four years later, when I was walking down Havelock Road,
a woman leaned out of a passing Mazda and shouted
Ha ha, Amy Brown, you bitch—I punched you and you cried.