The Axe
by Liliane Newberry
Once I went walking in the brown hills
of Palo Alto, where people wore shoes
that were only an approximation of shoes.
Vests also. Nobody said hi. They were busy
thinking in languages that can’t be verbally
communicated. The rabbits that darted
occasionally in between us were smooth
and user-friendly. Rattlesnakes
concealed themselves in the scrub-brush.
Suddenly, I was addressed in a voice
that was an approximation of the voice
of my mother. It streamed from the gate
to somebody’s greige home and said things
like go away and take two steps back
from the property line and I have guns
despite my advertised politics. Lithely I dodged
the automated gunfire and drove myself
to Home Depot, where I bought a small axe.
I then destroyed my wooden fence
plank by plank. I tore every door from its hinges.
I’m still trying to figure out the barrier
of my skin, but until then none of my rooms
will have roofs, and my oranges, bananas,
even my large free-range eggs will go naked.