I will believe till eternity, or possibly beyond it,
that Lizzie Borden did it with her little hatchet,
and whoever says she didn't commits the sin
of sins, the violation of an idol.
—Dorothy Parker
As murder chimed with the clockworks
you confessed to thumbing fashions
in Victorian magazines, scribbling
a wish list, cotton dresses to mirror
the verdant sheen of pears.
Mysterious fruits devoured
in your father's barn, clear
juice puddling on your chin
like the stains of lovemaking,
marking the dank place of broken
birds, a spine and feather memory
of Father clipping first their heads,
then your wings. Crimson oils greased
your thighs, his palms, your graduation ring,
a tarnished hope Father refused to break,
circle eternally squeezing his little finger
like your mute mouth sucking
on a bony thing, like your hatchet
cutting a friction burn as you excavated
the skeleton silent beneath
your Father's bones, forcing a response
in the house without words.