She has never been accustomed
to weapons, to blood, but one day,
she gets the notion to sever your head
and crack open the thin bones of your skull.
She wants to scape your brains out with a dull
wooden spoon, to fry them, and feed them
to someone unsuspecting. Placed in a chili,
perhaps vegans would mistake them
for filler. She chooses a short, serrated
kitchen knife. She waits by the door.
3 Comments
June 25, 2009 at 4:57 pm
i love some violence in my poetry and this starts with it in the title.
the ending is terrific. how we’re left waiting. nice!
June 29, 2009 at 6:30 am
This…reminded me of Sweeny Todd, though not right away.
I wish I knew WHY her love turned violent. Was it no longer love at this point?
I’d love to know
September 20, 2009 at 5:08 am
Love this.