HER BITTER AXE
His broken bones now buried lay
where insects crawl and cold byrnies
inexorably rust to reddened stains,
where princes and kings, paupers and beggars
return to dust. We interred his things,
his small tunics, his toys, his blade,
in that home un-high where no hand touches
his fleshless cheek. By fear guided,
wrestling artlessly, he rose and fought
for love of you. He looked braver
than ever before, the false image
of a true athlete at but ten winters,
as once you were. But we had known—
we all had known—he never should have fought;
I begged to fight, but you bade me watch
for I was no boy.
In a brutal throw,
his brain’s basket burst asunder—
it spilled its mess: the spurting blood,
the leaking gore—no glorious fight
would your son ever see. Does it seem worthy,
the price of pride you paid that day?
I should have drawn my deathly blade,
and cut you down.
A kinslayer
I would have become, a cursed exile—
but him yet alive, and you lying dead,
husband faithless, father craven,
skilled in battle, yet better known
for fucking wives of wedded men,
for countless deaths in decades past—
those wives widowed by your wicked hand—
And now you’re gone, a knight lordless,
a greedy wolf in the guise of a man.
Why should I stay the steel-bladed beard
of my bitter axe from biting your flesh?
Why do I daily wish to draw your blood
as you wished daily for the death of your lord?
Why did your son perish before his appointed time,
the best of us as a boy murdered,
and us leave longing, his lonesome kin,
hopeless killers cruel beyond measure?
