The Iron Fist

The Iron Fist claws the comfort from her,
Pulling, tearing, dragging,
Wearing her down. Its grip
On her hips like a vice,
Cranked.

She rocks, rhythmically
Curling her spine,
Kneading in turn her taut lumbar, her bloated dough,
Seeking comfort in steeped leaves, in warm wheat and shushhh.

Her wrought and feverish mind grazes the surface of sleep,
The Iron Fist dragging her back
To the prickly heat and needles of noise
With a sharp twist in her lumbar.

The waning of this phase feels moons away yet.