Broken Angel
(based on “Angel,” my poem for Poetic Bloomings)
Back then
Back when Christmas was fun
And it was Santa’s birthday again
We had a tree
Same one every year,
Balsam fir, short needles,
dressed in pure red
A huge Mrs. Claus,
a “mama tree”
Cherry lights strung to perfection
Middle sis righting every
incorrectly placed bulb ‘til it was
PERRRRRfect
Then the satinsheen red ornaments
(a hand-me-down from Aunt Pris,
the holiday window dresser at Fowler’s)
So fragile, handled like dynamite
lest one explode, one wrong move
revealing shards of thin glossy insides
We had no angel atop our tree, though
we three made many in Sunday school
and in every single grade –
back when Christmas was not a whisper
but a SHOUT ON COMMAND: HE IS BORN!
and to hell with the handful of Jews in the hallways
(some wishing they had trees and stockings too)
But angels? Our folks’d have to pick
one of our three… they’d have no trinity
And white would spoil the symmetry
Our angel, last year’s broken one
when a single slip lopped the top off
Stuck on top of the tree, inverted
Blood rushing to its head
crowned by needly thorns
“Lllight it up, plllug it in, Bud!
Girllls, outen the llllights!” slurred Mom
And there it stood
flooding the living room with
every gimmering shade of red
From the street, our tree was
a blazing hearth streaming
light onto snow that glowed
vaguely pink in its wake
“Oh, look,” said a neighbor
as folks strolled admiring
one another’s holiday handiwork,
“The Red Light District,
the Barlows’ cat house is once again
open for business!”
* * * * * * * * * *
That bulb on top
the bloodied, upside-down talisAngel of
all the other 360-some days of the year
Behind perfect suburban clapboard exterior
the heartbeat of interior fear
of inferiority comples flexing
my first scrawny girlish muscles that were
destined to beat up only myself
We’ve grown
Our kids’ angels, our new objects d’nativite
With grown-up arms, we
beat back the Barlow Bordello curse
But Christmas is still sad for me
Those shimmering red bulbs
Cherry ambulance lights on rescue that never came
A cry for help but
Dad’s hand was clamped over my mouth
A broken angel.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
This experience is based solely on my own experience and should not reflect on my siblings in any way other than before the asterisks (but middle sis WAS very meticulous about lighting, and I know she’d admit that, ha ha).
I wrote “Angel,” the part up to the “snowflake” asterisks, for Poetic Bloomings (childhood memories), but Sunday Scribblings wanted a poem about a Talisman, and this version goes deeper into the meaning of that ‘little red angel’ on our tree. Also for dverse Poets Open Mic on Tuesday, and as always, stuck in the stocking at Poets United, my “every day is a holiday” safe space. Peace, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 
johnallenrichter
An incredibly wonderful story, or so I thought until the last couple of stanzas and the last line changed my mind completely: incredibly intense…. Awesome!
Sharp Little Pencil
Thanks, John. It did indeed start off nostalgically, yet that broken bulb atop the tree brought with it some strange memories indeed… A
kaykuala
You were having fun,Amy! One thing about having siblings. When a project kicks off you’ll get all sorts of ‘expert opinions’ given freely on how best to go about it. In most cases of family projects these are given from the heart,genuine with good intentions. There may be mild sibling rivalries but just. Great familly project documented,
Hank
tigerbrite
A complex story and meaning Amy-
I think I am with you most of the time because my late husband was a reader in the Anglian church of UK-
that means in american that he was a minister. We are similar in lots of ways. I would have liked to post a poem like this but there was no internet back then-
oldegg
What unbearable sadness there is in this post. You put enough in to for us all to relate to it in some way but then those extra little hints reveal the pain and sadness of those years as well. How difficult it is to live a life like others with those chains of grief wrapped around you.
Sherry Blue Sky
Oh Amy, you told this so deep and true. Always interesting how homes look to people on the outside, and the secrets stuffed inside them. Gripping closing lines. The miracle is that we all survive and, more than that, actually thrive. I love how you always mention the sites you participate in – thanks for that, kiddo!
Josie Two Shoes
Often in stories such as this, it isn’t so much what is said, but what is there lurking, glaring at us from between the words. My heart hurts for that little girl and the memories of that time that should have been magical.
brian miller
Cherry ambulance lights on rescue that never came
A cry for help but
Dad’s hand was clamped over my mouth
A broken angel….damn…what a close…so raw and real…and painful….you made me tear up a bit there amy….i am glad you made it out….
Steve E
Amy, I did not tear up–just too tired…but I sure could feel every feeling, live every humiliation. Through your words, and my own experience, I saw what you saw.
And we (I hope you also are here) now cherish every guiltless breath of freedom, of knowing that we “came through it”. Maybe we help others “come through it” now?
Those same lines grabbed my heart also, as affected Brian.
I have an angel, Flex
(real name, Flexible!)
who never sat atop a tree
but always he sat next to me
vivinfrance
From happy families to secret sadness in one breath. This is too much to bear, Amy, but I hope the writing of it is an exorcism for you.
Berowne
As usual, Amy, a fascinating story, and quite moving.
SaraV
Amy, that last stanza was like a rabbit punch to the gut. Painful.
Then the inferiority complex muscles flexing.. that hit home in a different way… I remember those flexing in me. You write like you sing–deep and powerful
Kiana@NakedSoulPoetry
Perhaps we are kindred spirits! The happy family outside, secret family inside. I can totally relate. Lovely piece. Thank you visiting my blog. I have a couple more about child sexual abuse there if you’d like to check them out feel free.
ihatepoetry
Ameleh, this is the usual brilliance. Loved the details and the irony. Sending love, Brother Mosk
Jae Rose
The cherry ambulance lights never come do they..nobody ever comes..to a house covered in broken glass..to ‘us’..you make that bauble shine in your words..perhaps all angels need muscles to pick a way out of that place..physical or otherwise..(i used to look at the ornaments upside down..it seemed the only way to make things perfect..a looking glass of sorts)..i admire you..and your words..jae
Heaven (@asweetlust)
I thought it was going to be typical Christmas tree lighting story, but you gave this depth and sadness ~ The broken theme was subtly presented..the slurred mom, red lights, and the help that never came ~ Well done ~
Steve King
Amy,
What a trip you take us on. I appreciate what it took to put all of this down. The ending was perfect. Very fine job.
brian miller
i want you to know…Steve E (above) who is staying at my house right now…was telling our waiter at dinner he had an angel named Flex…i was just shaking my head at him…ha
darkangelwrites
I’ve been told I get a “little” anal in the lights and ornament placement department too. Very heart wrenching write.
claudia
oh heck amy…heavy emotions running in this..lost for words…
clawfish
It has so much and engages so deeply love it
Jannie Funster
amy, i hope only angels of light visit you now. and your inferiority muscles have grown to the superior ones that fit your soul much better.
xoxo
(sorry, have to input fake email addy or wordpress gives me the run-around.)
dani
all i can say is that i hope the courage you embody by writing about the things that happened to you helps in some way. and, of course, the angels we encounter. ♥
Poetic Bloomings
Amy, my heart just breaks for you and what all you’ve endured. I thought the mentally ill among us were supposed to be somehow weak … at least two I know have shattered that theory to bits. You and my daughter are two of the strongest people on the planet.
Wonderful write, as always.
Marie Elena
Renee Espriu
Holidays for some are not given to pleasant memories. A sad write but a truth that some need to know for not all family life is as pristine as we would all like to believe. Thank you, my friend.
Lindy Lee
Wasn’t there a rock song from your teen generation, “Tears for Fears”, or something like that? Explicit poem of sad proportion– alive to tell. Thank you…