SCORPIONS' TAILS

Your repressed indignation had barred her
from eternal slumber. She could not believe
the wounds she'd inflicted had pierced that deeply.
Where did you get such thoughts
if not from scorpions' tails?
For others, unconditional forgiveness.
For her, unending resentment.
The tables turned:
helpless to close immaterial ears,
voiceless in self-defence,
she had to experience it all
driven into the centre of her being -
had to feel the blade,
not through her non-existent heart, but there on the walls
through her paintings, in dark thought-forms
piercing her talent with poison arrows
in their ornate frames of gold leaf -
why did her work take pride of place
whilst yours, unframed, lay gathering dust
in a neglected corner of the attic?

Did your cry of deliverance
resound in her open grave? Each arrow
nailing her to the earth taking on
the form of a beautiful healing Angel.
In stark contrast: the ugliness of her harsh criticism
that rendered you just as ugly,
like a cancer cell eating away
at your spiritual body, gradually depleting
Higher Self.
Mother-in-Law's disparaging tongue
no longer to be borne. Your hidden relief
became an exorcism, ridding you
with something approaching euphoria
of years of humiliation.

Healed, the lighter you rose above
the monumental
contorted form
of your injury: Mum-in-Law's tongue
pinned down by your arrows...
but it was your blood that oozed
from the corners of her mouth.