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Molly Crighton

The first woman to kill


‘Abimelek went to the tower and attacked it. But as he approached the entrance to the tower to set it on fire, a woman dropped an upper millstone on his head and cracked his skull.
Hurriedly he called to his armour-bearer, ‘Draw your sword and kill me, so that they can’t say, “A woman killed him.’’ So his servant ran him through, and he died.’
           
Judges 9:52-54

Women in killer-red from nail to lip fill a ballroom
              grouted with garnet and spinel.
We kick off our ruby shoes and tip-tap dance
              on the meat-red slabs, our gavotte-gore.

Later: our afterlife red-light 18+ all-night comedy club
              and I’m up.

He came to our city: a man like blue-iron extrusion
a fractal man, a crunch-fingered man,
              a dew drop diamond man.

We Rapunzeled ourselves in our tallest tower
and Blueboy blinked up, his eyes the lapis stones
              of a dead Pharaoh.

Yes, ladies, we were trapped alright. But don’t worry—
              they had ME.
Carnelian-cherry, Ruby-woo-hoo;

I was burgundy-buff, their grindstone-girl—
no sword was forged in that town
              without my say-so.

I’d been sharpening my tongue, and I yelled down; he looked up
‘Hey,’ I said, and dropped my grindstone over the edge
              my vision turning red.

He stumbled like a man on deck, a blue whale
              left for dead
he couldn’t believe it: a bump, on his head!

He blinked his big eyes, newborn-blue
              A woman! The end of me?
              I can’t let that be!
he said, so he
grabbed his blue buddy and begged for release.

I was a smouldering crucible at the tip of our matchstick tower.
He’d have been fine—some red-edged vision, some seep from the skull

but he’d rather have died by a man’s hand
than live by a woman’s damned—it’s sad.

But my business did well after that.
I still used the grindstone that saved our necks
and I heard what they said: get your sword’s edge
              from the woman who killed Abimelek.


Molly Crighton is a writer living in Ōtepoti Dunedin. She recently completed an MIS at Te Herenga Waka, and works as a Collections Assistant at Ōtākou Whakaihu Waka. Her work can be found in journals across New Zealand and internationally.