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She’s My Battle Axe
I like those old couples
The ones that stay pissed
And buy new dishes
Because the ones they threw
—missed
“She’s my battle axe”
He says with an eye roll
What a great thing to say I think,
She must be gold plated
An absolute trophy
Or some polished bride serving looks
To weaker men for attention, the ones
Who vanish when she shows interest
If she’s the axe:
I wanna taste the blade
Right down the middle
Like the fallen in bronze age,
I wanna bleed for weeks
then replay the highlights
While laying in the sheets
—oof, that’s a regret
I let it all marinate on grey matter
Then sink another hour into this cold shower
Because Jesus Christ, who does she think she is
The blade?
The partition blocking me
So I can’t apply this trade?
Is she the wee hours of the night
Where whispers tower over?
Where some darkness meets the sharpness
And the two collide in chaotic harmony?
If anything I don’t think she’s the axe,
or the blade.
She’s not the tower in focus
Or the river ran wild,
I think she’s the handle
Giving instruction to the glave,
Feeling focus in that moment,
Paying no mind
-To what I say.
