My sister is on the top ropes, on the arm of our mother’s good couch. She has been battered badly, flung off the ropes, clotheslined, pile-drived, nearly pinned. But the crowds, my other sister, me, a raucous crew of rubber musclemen in speedos have cheered her to her feet.
She’s feeding on our will, on our fever-chants, on our wish she rise and take revenge. We’re big on revenge in this house, and my sister Hulk Hogan tears open her shirt from the neck. She corkscrews her arm at the shoulder and pulls the shell of her hand to her ear to better hear us. She squats there on the top rope’s turnbuckle and leaps, her hair rushing away from her skull as she turns in the air to lead with her elbow. That point, sharp as a crime, finds a home in the throat of a once-loved doll.