flashquake Poetry

You had a daughter, flaxen-headed,
a flower, no Grimm-land of fairytale tower.

This was real, not read, you the dragon in the cave,
the bed. You the ogre with your son in your lap.

You the troll without a bridge, shaking your son,
pulling your little girl across the room, rough palm

on the ribbon of light that was her hair. You so
sodden with drink the whole bed turned to sponge:

I crawled off, laid on the floor, wood beating
its dead tree heart, for I am the woodsman in this story:

I climbed the walls, I spun the wheel, I caught
the drop of blood before it fell from the spindle,

I ate the apple, swallowed the poison: changed it to
sweet candy I passed on as sorrow, burned licorice.

I sold the cow to get the meat-O-when the milk ran dry.
I bartered with a boy for beans, a shell game.

I held his hand, I saved his good green eye
when you stole the blue one while he slept.

You uncurled his soft hand in childish dreams
to grab at marbles, now sullied, but I taught him

to hone a patient sword, to calve a harm sudden,
to drop the jacks and catch the golden ball,

to saw open the frog's mouth when the pond runs dry.
To watch my back while I pounded out this thesis:

I covered the mirrors, I found the crumbs,
and when it came time, when it was necessary,

I killed you. I came prepared with stones.
I slit you open and filled you up. I sewed

you tight, a drummed-mouth punt of silence.
The newspaper said your heart gave out.