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.
