Jiu Jitsu

We are driving home from a typical lunch
during which I choked on my foot
half a dozen times and shot it several more.

The car is quiet with my remorse.
I need redemption.

I notice a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu school
hidden like a ninja in a low-slung strip mall
and mutter that maybe I should have indulged
in martial arts as a kid.
It would have taught me humility
and, probably, I'd be a tenth degree
lethal weapon by now.

She drives while I begin an extended soliloquy
on strikes, kicks, throws, joint-locks,
chokeholds, and pressure points, all of which
I know nothing about.

After a mile, she turns up the stereo,
but I'm delivering a kick and throw
my voice into a screech that can toss
even the deafest opponent
to the ground in a fit of agony.

But she's tough, merely grinding her teeth,
her eyes hardening to the road
while my monologue drains into her ears.

Yes, if only I'd spent my youth
studying the martial arts I'd be
a killing machine, a lethal weapon!

A tiny smile twists her lips
as she swivels on her seat, gives me that look
(you know the one), and says,
"But you are a lethal weapon, my dear."

"Whatever do you mean?" I parry,
wondering if she's finally cracked.

"Words. . . you kill them with words,"
she replies.

And I'm still not quite sure what she means
but decide not to parse her words
because maybe she's just found the chokehold
that throws me to the mat in submission.