Batting Practise

Where her shin is blue,
The ball probably kept low—
Such a calculated blow.

On her burning head,
The emphatic gash of a full toss;
An indefinite period of memory loss.

On her neck
And all along her sides,
The blackened blobs of failed cover drives.

He wakes in the morning,
A gentle headache keeping him calm,
He runs his fingers down her screaming arm.

“Sorry, honey, about the batting practise.
Never again. Now give us a peck!"
She tries to turn her neck.

He leaves. Another morning
has thrown up on the bathroom floor.
She smiles, winces, closes the door.

Limps to the kitchen,
Finds her own well-hidden Bottle of Bashes
Blood has no memory; stashes win matches.