[17] "The Butcher"

The Butcher
by Deidre Price
 

For what I’m worth,

you must have paid the devil dearly

to believe you own me,

to lay me out on your hardwood block,

arrange the tools of your trade beside

my grade, the record of my wrongs.

You found the flaws you looked for,

trimmed them out, away,

no matter the blood.

You cut me down to sizes you thought

I should be, and when I grew back,

you brought my whole back to halfway.

You made me your Prometheus,

your pecking away reopening yesterday’s wounds,

but my skin kept growing back.

Time won’t let me die.

For what I’m worth,

you must have paid the devil twice

to have made me believe you own me, too.

When you’re born a slab on a hook,

you do not miss being alive

until someone teaches you the word.

When you believe you were born for the block,

you sharpen the butcher’s knives while he’s away,

you tend the shop, keep him happy.

When you believe you were born to bleed,

you learn the tricks of the butcher’s trade,

know where to cut and how deep.

When you believe you are the butcher’s,

you sleepwalk spare house keys to him,

give him maps to your front door,

put his tools under the mat.

You set yourself back on that block

and hope Time changes her mind.

[16] "Breakup Letter to a Basket of Laundry"

Breakup Letter to a Basket of Laundry

by Deidre Price

I will not do you

or do anything to you

until you stop doing

that thing you do to me—

that callous, couchpotatoed stare you give,

your Jabba impression,

your fluff—

that blind but hungry-eyed glazed-over gaze

says, “What are you wearing?”

like it’s any of your business—

that towel-wagging, sock-shedding blame

           you cover sofa arms and table legs with,

           makeshift bodies until you find my own.

You cannot have me, laundry.

I’m done. 

[15] "O[CD] Christmas Tree"

O[CD] Christmas Tree

by Deidre Price

If I were single and in New York by now,

I would have pulled out my Christmas tree snow globe already,

called decorating done and kept my space to myself.

If I were a twenty-something product of the Gap,

I would have found the hottest color and bought new ornaments to match it,

taken a picture and put it online for strangers to see.

If I had more money than imagination,

I would have window-shopped until I saw the perfect tree, then bought it,

star to skirt, and hired someone to recreate the magic in my den.

If I lived on 30A,

my living room tree would be the tallest, my dining room tree, comparable,

and my foyer tree totally green with recycled ornaments.

If I lived where Christmas trees grew,

I would walk outside, point, and tell my mountain man husband,

“Just flock it.”

If I were a responsible grown up,

I would buy a real tree.

I can’t be trusted with a real tree,

and I’m none of these things.

My tree,

because it’s me,

is fake—durable and fake.

It’s nine and a half feet of overcompensating for its insecurity of being fake.

It’s a mish mash of time.

From handmade to handmedown,

from Hallmark to all jacked up,

I see pears, birds, and angels from my mother.

Disney princesses and ballerinas remind me a girl lives here.

Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader make peace on our tree.

The bottom two feet of plush are for a tiny toddler.

Elementary faces adorn some branches,

fingerprints on glass balls find others.

Trains, Coca-cola polar bears, and gingerbread ladies form alliances.

Snoopy sits beside Ronald McDonald and Eeyore.

We won some ornaments in a divorce that wasn’t our own.

And sparkles, God, the sparkles on the snow men and flakes.

And this is how our tree will always be,

so full of love and family.