CORA HYATT —

JUDITH SLAYING HOLOFERNES;

or, a response to Betsy DeVos’ Title IX policy

Vengeance is never quick, 

it lays in wait, 

a rattlesnake in tall grass 

posing to strike 

and strike it does 

when you believe you are safe, 

when you have absolved yourself of guilt, when you have forgotten. 

True justice can be cruel, 

this you understand, as 

you look upon me, your killer, 

wielding fate at hand, 

and indeed with fate, I make it hurt. 

You scream and fight 

and pray for your suffering to end, 

but that would be too kind. 

This kindness was never shared with me, and they will only stop calling me victim, when I wrench from your hands 

what once was mine. 

I use fate to saw 

capillaries, arteries, sin, and bone. 

My hands, the dirt below, your sheets 

are covered and stained with divine retribution, 

and this is me taking back control of the narrative, and you cannot interrupt me, 

because your vocal cords are cut but I can see, you are still begging me to stop, 

but to allow that would be too easy. 

I do not finish you off, 

I let your blood run and water the earth, I allow fate to give its verdict. 

MAYBE TOMORROW, NOT TODAY

Yesterday, my lover told me not to die

as the grass of graves is never greener,

and I’d be better off 

salting the earth. 

I imagine, 

from my rotting body 

flowers might grow, 

and I’d be them and 

that would be my eternity, 

but my lover tells me, 

the roots and the soil will wait, 

and Death is a hermit, 

I need not bring him from his house. 

In time, 

I will forget to say the names that burn and

I will learn to avoid all that scalds. I’ll read

some lines of unfinished poetry to the

morning glories in my mother’s vase. 

Though I’ve long lost my affinity for life maybe tomorrow, but not today, 

I will pluck it from the earth, 

hold it in my hands, 

and tell it I will find a way to love it again. 

In another world, 

my lover places two carnations on my grave, but today we are sharing tea in the garden and watching the sun rise in all its glory.


Cora Hyatt (she/they) is a poet, student, and Indiana transplant presently living in Portland, Oregon. If delivering flowers, send red carnations. Read more @lipglossdiet on Instagram and follow her @horacyatt on Twitter.