Conversation With My Fatherby Elline Lipkin |
after Grimm's The Maiden Without Hands |
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After we speak I go to the hardware store to decide on a drill, feel each black–packaged tool bristle with its will to do harm. I interlope among bit sets, arrays of blade and shaft, gun–like metal shapes that brag of power. The word–whir of our talk still buzzes its drone a hot saw always left in the corner, ready to hack. Important — safety instructions flutter then drop. I follow your advice on what's needed to needle a skin of paint, the force it takes to punch the wall. How much better if I could have been like Athena, springing clear as a doe, neat as a sum, blasted out of your head like a sweep of clean logic. If only I could have been pure as a product of the mind’s mitosis, justified as when 'if' begets 'then,' and 'a' equals 'c,' each chamber of reason I passed smelting an iron–ore layer over my breast. How alike we could be when I emerged, balanced as an axiom, threaded straight as a theory, and born armed, with bow and arrow in hand. Instead, in your grip, I was Thumbelina, a glass angel, a set of porcelain arms crossed behind a back. My hand was to stay undissolved as a spun–sugar lump until asked for, approved of, then towed down an aisle. But I've told you I can't be good as Grimm's girl, when we stand near the ax I draw my wrists back. Each pointed finger is my true weapon. I won’t let you bronze the cut cups of my palms. | ||||||||
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