Cutting It
Ellen remained sane long enough
to give birth to a healthy
nine-pound baby boy.
She pushed out all her strength
and grew fragile as lace.
After three years,
she turned into scissors,
cut holes into the lace
until her son, nearly breathless,
fell through into the arms
of his grandparents.
His grandfather stood the boy up
on the back porch
and with large blunt fingers slapped
the dust of madness
off his shirt and pants.
Holding the screen door open,
the old man watched the boy
race for the trees, deeply rooted,
promising fruit every year.
His grandmother prepared a room
for Ellen, lined it with batting
like a drawer for family heirlooms.
Ellen stayed inside
untarnished by the outside world,
her mind engraved with words
only she could decipher.
