This time of year
I’m reminded of a student
With fiery red hair and a wildness to match.
She would attack greetings with
fairy tale ferocity (The Grimm kind)
unfound since the days before high fives.
If you dared to meet her
with five fingers raised high,
waiting to be slapped,
she’d clasp her hand into a fist
and pound your wrist with
a brick of little muscle.
After your brittle bones are snapped
in half, she’d add insult to injury,
(the shape that your hands make
like that lame arts and crafts project
from third grade).
If that wasn’t bad enough,
she’d then decapitate the fleshy
creature with the swift slash
of her other hand.
She’d say, beaming.
And you’d be left with
the feathered end of the animal,
not knowing what to do with
the now-limp hand.