Lizzie Borden was alive in you,
in a dreary wooden way,
holding her breath for the next thing,
turning blue then gray.
You considered the wooden cradle
and me, of imperfect flesh
deciding you'd hate me not so much
were I made of ash.
Lay the axe at fireside,
move the cradle closer, too.
Your suicidal substitute
me in place of you.
The handle of the axe is made
from that which it destroys
in little bits and other shit
like broken burned-up toys.
But I, so like you in some ways
had asbestos in my soul
and rose away in sparks and smoke
like an orange oriole.
_______
for Sunday Muse #197.
You have said it, Shay, axe murderers are hard to take. Some behead chickens, bleeding them before cooking. I have a hatchet but not an axe. The fun of smoking is in the "sparks and smoke," I liked blowing smoke rings but stopped forty-seven years ago.
ReplyDelete"Travel stories for girls," I must read more.
..
This is brilliant and wonderful even in it's stark and dark portrayal of a stark and dark soul. I know who it references, and that is a hard burden to bear indeed. Mothers are supposed to be soft and supportive. I especially love the stanza that holds the truth of the handle of the axe. I am so glad you joined in this week my friend!!
ReplyDeleteI love the rising like an oriole - so vexing to those who try to quash our flame, our refusal to be extinguished.
ReplyDelete“The handle of the axe is made
ReplyDeletefrom that which it destroys”
Is that a completely original thought? That is brilliant philosophy.
I like the sparks and smoke rising from the ashes like a phoenix, in the form of an oriole.
ReplyDeleteLisa is spot on, Shay the Phoenix .... rising! You have a way of expressing pain that few possess.
ReplyDeleteWow, fantastic! By the third stanza and "me in place of you" I thought, Oh this is going to take a dark turn! And then it ended with asbestos in your soul making you rise in sparks and "an orange oriole." A wonderful tale you've told, Shay. I also love the image of the axe being made up of broken burned-up toys. <3
ReplyDeleteAn amazing tale. Just perfect voice.
ReplyDeleteShay--There are so many marvelous bits. What the handle is made of. Holding her breath. In little bits and other shit. The asbestos-filled soul. The victorious spirit, rising up like an orange oriole.
ReplyDeleteMakes my jaw drop, as always.
This is as sharp as any axe, more like a scalpel really, for laying bare the cuts and blows that make us ourselves. they may make us who we are, we may indeed be full of asbestos for their fires, but they burn and wound just the same. Far from a bit of doggerel, here, the perfect rhyme and meter make a fine bit of firewood for the bonfire of the past.
ReplyDeleteI love the vibrancy of "Lizzie Borden was alive in you", followed by the ash grey drear of it all. Wonderful. Indeed there is asbestos in the soul of this fire of a poem.
ReplyDeleteI can see the oriole rising breathing life into the journey forward as the journey backwards is dark.
ReplyDeleteWow!! I'm impressed.
ReplyDelete'asbestos in the soul'
Love your description of the ax. Ashes to ashes.
ReplyDelete