My Daughter’s Chamber

I stepped into my slaughter chamber,

wept and knew my daughter’d lain there;

thought I, too, on gods that’d claimed her

not enough to need a name.

But I’d called her precious.

Here they’d hewed her, clawed her, maimed her,

to subdue her, wrought her, tame her;

thought they, too, they’d taught her, trained her—

naught be ’nough to heed the cane.

For she’d had my spirit.

Blood crept—drew like water—drained her,

leapt and spewed, to blot her, stain fur;

thought most, too, her plotter’s veins were

hot enough to see her slain.

But I knew. For her, death’d be too easy.

Fear’s what chewed her, gnawed her, reined her;

fear’s what skewered, soldered, shamed her.

Too confused ’n’ rot, her brains were

fraught enough to seem insane.

But she’d survived worse.

She’d slept in slough, where rot fur reigned her;

kept soaked through—her lot where rain slurred;

thought once, too, those plots of pain were

broad enough to meet the plains.

But even there, my girl hadn’t died yet.

So when swept to that slotted chamber,

’cept when slew, she fought and strained sure;

showed she, too, no knot or chains were

taut enough to take her flame.

But then I heard HIM coming.

To hear what’d grew her, caught her, lamed her,

sheared and shooed her—shot, spurred, sprained her...

Now He, too, still sought the same: for

my life’s snuff—for my life’s bane.

So my thoughts turned to MY mother.

So, Mother. Soon...

You’ll weep and knew YOUR daughter came here.

So had, too, who’d slaughtered, twained her.

Soon you’ll, too—who ought’ve named her.

Then you’ll see your girls again.