WARNING: NOT for the squeamish. (So if you read it, you have only yourself to thank or blame.)
For those who don’t know me well enough yet, this happened to me when I was a kid. Feel free to comment, ask questions, or engage me through email if you prefer to speak privately (ask and ye shall receive my address). I’m open about this (and my mental disorders) because I want survivors to shed their unearned shame and get the help they need to sweep the monster from under the bed and LIVE their lives not as victims, but as true survivors. Peace, Amy
Too Close, No Comfort
She feels the proximity of the monster
Hears his footsteps
Smells his acrid third-martini breath
She should call out, scream
But it’s useless, no one comes to
help the child until afterwards
It’s over. She wet the bed again
but he never noticed, too busy with
her small, slack-jawed mouth
Will she ever tell the secret everyone knows,
or will she block it all out to preserve
what little sense of self remains?
Little girls have a capacity, as do little boys
to save retribution for adulthood,
when they are able to handle the history
Tears witnessed by a therapist,
perhaps meds to ease the trauma as it is relived
again and again, until the haunting stops
My dad never did the perp walk
Mom never admitted she knew
but my sweet revenge was forgiveness:
After all, he was the sick one.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Three Word Wednesday: Immobile, Proximity, Retribution
Lindy at Poetic Licensee wrote a lovely poem today, memories of her mother. I promised her I’d blog a poem I wrote a year ago about my mom, because we had some bits in common, so here it is… This was also part of my chapbook, Dance Groove Funhouse. Thanks, my new friend Lindy, for reminding me of this one! Peace to all, Amy
THE WRINGER
I was the baby so I
spent a lot of time with Mom
watching her perform the mundane tasks
of suburban housewifery
that would eventually lead her to alcoholism
But back then they were fun
The radio was always on
Roger Miller singing King of the Road
We’d sing along
She taught me to harmonize when I was four
Downstairs to do laundry
A humungous circular washer, a wringer
And a clothesline out back
To her this was heaven
having survived the Depression
All these conveniences
meant just for her
In those days, she saw her life as luxurious
And she saw me as company
and the only friend around
After poking a stick into the washing
to make sure the detergent had really dissolved
She drained it and refilled to rinse
Man, she really took the stick to that
Everything had to be clean, perfect, worthy
But the best part
Before the hanging on the line with wooden clothespins
(Someone should invent something with a spring,
she said absentmindedly one day
Her mom was a genius, too)
Was the wringer
The clothes being strangled as they
gave up almost every drop of their being
I pretended they were bad people who were being punished
I prayed for them but secretly relished their fate
Back then it was easy
We’d go upstairs and have coffee (mine was mostly milk)
She light a Lucky and we’d sit
gazing out the window to the fields beyond
Soundtrack by The Lettermen and Peggy Lee
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Also at my poetic touchstone, Poets United.
Next, updating the huge backlog of your comments. But just to assure you that I’m back “for real,” here is a poem. (PS This was updated thanks to my buddy Mike, who caught a typo in the second line. Bravo for second pairs of eyes!)
I always told Riley, “Just because you’re my only child doesn’t mean you owe me grandchildren, like some sort of karmic payback. And when it’s time to take away my car keys, you have my permission NOW, while I’m still together… same thing with putting me in assisted living or a nursing home. Only one caveat on that…”
Retirement Plan
(For my daughter, with love and zero guilt!)
When I grow too slow for races
Should I live to be quite dull
And my conversation brings a yawn
And my wheelchair you must pull
Waste no time on guilt, my dear
You have complete permission
To send me to a nursing home
I’ve only one provision:
First send me on a cruise ship
To see Alaska’s shore
I’ll slip, unnoticed, overboard
And be a mermaid once more
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Our First Actual Date
I fumble pouring beer from the pitcher
We banter: Work, our daily bread, church
His gentle way assures me that
he doesn’t expect this date to end up in bed
We’re long-time friends, he respects
my role as a single mother, and my kid likes him
Then a simple glance, and we realize
we’re meant for each other
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Dedicated to my husband and partner of almost 14 years, Lex.
For Three Word Wednesday (words in bold), and the heartbeat my collective work, Poets United.
Answered the call at We Write Poems (although we won’t post there until Wednesday) to write a poem that begins, “I’m willing to eat ____.” Tried to avoid the most obvious noun (ha ha), because, although I have consumed a fair amount of shit in my life, rarely was it willingly!
Also posted at my NaPoWriMo home, We Write Poems, and at Poets United. Peace, Amy
Willing to Eat Worms
I’m willing to eat worms
or walk through fire for you
Shield you from harm
Comfort you when thunder
steamrolls over your sleep
Hold you when you weep after
someone calls you a name
Why? Because I’m your mother.
I’m willing to swallow all pride
…except my pride in you, kiddo
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Simply a meditation on power and overcoming its shackles. Amy
More Than This
She burned with the anger of the powerless.
That incendiary pissed-off-edness:
Light the fuse, fueled by years
wriggling under the thumb of
a cruel, oppressive man…
There must be more than this.
Seething through silent beatings
which left no marks, bruising only her ego,
mangling her tangled inner weavings,
thread by thread he delighted in pulling apart
the uniqueness she had once treasured.
There should be more than this.
When at last the reaching occurred
(God to her? Her hand outstretched to the Divine?),
the tinderbox of regret, hatred, guilt
burst forth in flame, melting away
tarred resins of the past.
There can be more than this.
Emerging from the fire,
refined to her pure self,
she took her little girl’s hand and smiled.
His pursuit was futile,
for she finally possessed an unbreakable truth:
There will be more than this.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Ah, the beloved Wordle landed once again at Big Tent Poetry. Like a Rubik’s cube of words, except there is no right or wrong way to assemble it. Check out Big Tent to see others’ work. Peace, Amy
Parade of Smiles (Big Tent Poetry)
The parade of smiles, boyish slips of things
that turn out to be teenage girls,
seems to defy explanation.
I gasp as they slump by,
stick figures who should be
waking to full womanhood.
I question silently their choices
of salad over Chinese in the food court
and hope they get enough protein and fats.
My daughter’s love of moccachinos speaks volumes
about her state of mind and body.
She may be a tangle of emotions…
but her body is aflame with curves.
Thighs with musculature and form;
she is aware of herself and fully awake.
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Take a trip to Three Word Wednesday, where this week’s challenge was to create a poem using the words Dare, Practical, and Essence. Click on the links of other poets and see the variety that emerges!
This is not a true story, by the way, except for the term “dust rhinos,” coined by my beloved Lex before we were married – at which point, I handed him a broom and said, “Go for it!” Amy
PERFECTLY ORDERED
She considered herself a practical person.
A place for everything; order ruled her world.
The little cup holding writing utensils was called,
“The Pencil Department,” setting a clear directive:
No scissors were allowed in that receptacle.
The essence of her need for these boundaries
came from (where else?) her childhood.
Mom was a gypsy tethered to a suburban home,
escaping for occasional adventures and
dragging daughter along for the ride.
Mom was not the housekeeper type;
her idea of ironing was catching Dad’s shirts
just as they came out of the dryer,
then folding faux creases in the collar and sleeves.
She only cooked frozen or canned foods.
The house was a mess, save the daughter’s room,
which sported a bedspread ready for
a drill sergeant’s quarter-toss and
neatly folded clothes, specifically spaced hangers.
All while Mom watched the soaps and drank.
Once on her own, the girl dared to let it slip a bit.
Her apartment was allowed to drift into disorder
until the day a dust rhino danced by her feet.
‘Twas then that her former, finicky self kicked into gear…
but every potential partner was repelled by her Pledge.
(c) 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 