LIZZIE BORDEN: “NOT I BUT THE MOON”
Not I but the moon
Decrees each loss of blood.
You confided slyly, Besom-Breast!
I’ll crochet a horsehair head for you and
Lacework- stitch your flesh, my darling
You and old Scrimshaw Pate – He
Who Must Know Best.
Hot wax outlines a new broom’s sweep in
Sacred dust: chorus of shoe-buttons pops like
Potato-eyes. Oh, I shall dine on you
My darlings, rolling you in
Pig viands I dredge your souls in
Righteous lard. I am the sanctified enemy
Of the paper cut people:
My hymn shall rock
The laughing house.