Empty Hand

It’s 6 in the evening and I’m standing in the dojo
with cold bare feet on the dull wooden floor.
It’s not really a dojo, just a gym like any other
with rotting walls and dust in every corner,
but the floor is good, so every Tuesday and Thursday
we gather to perform a dance isn’t danced
across the dusty expanse of the floors.

Someone forgot the towels to clean the floors
and the grit of the old building engrains itself
into the pattern of my foot, sinking between my toes.
I stare at the stiff back of the person in front of me
Imagining my strikes connecting, face level,
stomach level and a kick to the belt and then
a respectful bow allows only a second to relax.

Karate, it means empty hand, but if you ask me
my hands are quite full, with the moves so precise
that the slightest miscalculation can mean injury.
My hands are occupied, full of the knowledge that they
are not quite as harmless as they seem.
So I train them, going through the choreography
of battle that could someday save my life.

November 21, 2002