New England, 1886

Her little life lay on the bed
Concentrate as that sword
Intent, edged, unsheathed
Prophesized by the Lord

Not to bring peace but more life
Than any outside her closed door
And she interred like a knife
In the kitchen’s silverware drawer.

She awaited her chance for the attack
To be bloodied under his touch
From which there’d be no going back
- but it never came to much.

Her papers were put away
Her dresses were folded up
Her brother was heard to say
She was strange even as a pup.
- Karen Chamisso