There will be a bonus third poem today because I’m the blogmaster and I can do whatever I want. I apologize in advance for the bottom part of this running all together – I don’t know enough html to fix it.
(june 2002)
I collect them, you know. Untold
Stories. It isn’t
that they’re untold really, it’s that
they aren’t written
down. I started because
I am a woman. Our stories
are found inside our bones, behind
smashed window panes and broken
doors, in bottles of gin or nestled atop
gleaming counters and under just swept
rugs. Sometimes they are written
in the blue of bruised children. There are
tales that ride the wind, whisper in your ears
at night when you think it’s just the dog
dreaming. There are yarns that the cat plays
with, sharp claws meant to comfort. If we
catch them, nail them down safely – no blood
on white sheets – something gets lost: a word
here, there a whole phrase; the ending changes
so the babies won’t cry and momma’s broken
arm is already healed. And the hero of the tale
becomes, witchery you know, male. Just ask
Little Red Riding Hood, who knows the true
secret of walking in the woods alone.
Disparity
cooked every Monday for four
generations until the water
washed it away.
clapboards splintering like frail old
bones in the jaws of the beast.
five years empty now, sacred ground
bleached with the salt of bitter tears
but still loved with a fierceness that
would amaze the unbaptized.
else dear sisters
be soil
feet forming
our circle and when he comes
we shall hold our breasts in our hands
and say
did we not mother you? so
why do you come to us puling
for blood
the milk is still dribbling down
your chin
but you have carved our wombs
on plates like so many
poor dumb birds
the eggs are splattered
now
life is not found
5 Comments
Thank you, Tammy and Barbara. You both perfectly said something I needed to read. I continue to find my voice…
Tammy, what you write and what you choose to post amazes me! It’s like food, but not just any food. Gourmet for the soul!
Mlissabeth, you are not only a survivor, but a wise woman, knowing that for your own survival, and the peace of innocent others, your story demands a select audience. I had the honor to view a powerful performance on domestic violence portrayed in poetry and modern dance. Afterward, there was a discussion with a group of survivors, and a common thread echoed: The tight rope that needs to be walked between the need to tell your story, and the need to be safe. So you learn to tell your story, safely, and that’s not just something you learn, it’s something you live. And after awhile, you see it a component of your own, unique beauty. Beauty not in what happened to you, but in the person you became as a result of your survival.
Mlissabeth: You made me cry. We have to share our stories – all of them, not just the pretty ones. Otherwise the others will think they are the only ones and that something is wrong with *them* – thank you for sharing!
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I see a violence theme here, and although I admit I am saddened by it, and don’t like it, it is real, and must be told, and explained and owned. At 15, I became a victim of molestation by an uncle. Although not nearly as treacherous as most, I was deeply wounded in my soul. At 46, I am no longer a victim, and feel that it cannot be unacknowledged. Yet my journey through this continues, in trying to discover who I can share with, and how to stand in the reality with out causing more pain.