Crowning Glory
She dresses for the party tonight
simply
sweetly
She fusses with her Hello Kitty necklace
dreamily
purposefully
She lingers in a view of
herself
and her crown of glory
Her “all clear” party and
chestnut
hair jewelry
© 2014 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Locks of Love allows people to donate 10” or more of their own hair to help create wigs for low-income girls who have allopecia or are fighting cancer. My favorite donor was a girl in our Attica church who had done it twice before her 16th birthday. Imaginary Garden With Real Toads’ Magaly asked us to write about hair jewelry. This sprang to mind as a survivor adornment, as one friend told me, “until the real thing comes along!”
Peace, Amy
PLEASE NOTE: If you are strictly anti-abortion, you probably won’t want to read this. Better yet, perhaps you should, because it deals with a particular “method of conception,” as one lawmaker so callously put it recently. So that makes me… a walking uterus? And since I’m post-menopausal, that would make me useless… It’s like how they called cigarettes a “nicotine delivery system.” And don’t get me started on “legitimate rape.” It’s violence and power, not sex. Hey, women can see past this malarkey. Remember in November, sisters!
Scroll down a bit for the poem.
Since the Procedure
First appointment since
her miserable abortion.
She’s 18 – nervous, tearful.
The nurse who knows her and
helped with the procedure
is by her side. Part rock, part teddy bear.
Then Doctor steps in.
Without a word, detached,
he flips up the stirrups
like it’s a mechanical bull and
not an exam table. “Slide up,”
are his first words to her.
He invades her with icy hands.
Palpates roughly.
Orders her to relax.
This from the man who
vacuumed her womb
only last week. He performed
the abortion, but you can feel
his disgust toward his patient.
“I said RELAX.” She tenses at the command.
Then, he mumbles, “I can’t do this
if you don’t cooperate.”
Briskly sheds his latex gloves;
brusquely exits the room.
Nurse holds the girl as she shakes and sobs,
“Take the money and run, doc.”
Later, Doctor gripes, “These girls
get in this type of trouble
and I have to take care of it but
they don’t help, not a bit.”
Nurse blurts, “Yeah, don’t you hate it when
girls go out and get themselves raped?
Honest to God, you have no idea, do you?”
Her indignant outburst is lost on him as he
flips through a Bermuda Vacation catalog.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Three Word Wednesday (yes, it’s Sunday, I’m well aware!) asked for a poem including the words Miserable, Brisk, and Detached. I knew a doctor like this… one of my friends was raped and he had ZERO pity, zero compassion. There are plenty of wonderful doctors, but this guy wasn’t one of them. That nurse (Catholic by faith, dedication to social justice gospel) quit the practice and opened a counseling center for girls and women recovering from abortion. “It has to be legal, clean, and safe,” she said, “but it doesn’t have to be even more traumatic than what some of them went through to need the procedure in the first place.”
I will also challenge readers at dverse Open Mic… perhaps I’ll get some flack. In fact, I hope I do, if only to open the door for mutually understanding and conversation. May every child be a wanted child, Amy
TO ALL MY WONDERFUL READERS: If you are uncomfortable with the growing phenomenon of “cutting” among young women, please skip this – or scroll down and learn. There’s a new, hopeful trend among teens and 20s of tattooing the word “Love” on one’s inside wrist as a reminder, either for themselves to not cut, or in solidarity with and compassion for those who do. Peace, Amy
Bleed
Awesome with a razor
She’s straight-edge all the way
Cuts in patterns
Endangering her health
for the sake of
force-feeding her psyche
She sees no hazard
in this habitual ritual
She knows what she’s doing
She gets in lots of practice
She’s waited all day to
be alone with the one…
The blade that understands
her pain and her release
The pain she cannot name
and isn’t ready to claim
Today, perfect lines, sleek
and hardly bleeding at all
Tomorrow, she’ll wear
a long-sleeved hoodie
in the torrid noonday sun
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday (B) and for Three Word Wednesday: Cut, Endanger, Hazard.
Girls who are numb to the world because of depression or other mental disorders, may cut themselves in order to feel. The warning signs are long-sleeved shirts in the hottest weather, parents finding an Exacto knife or other sharp instrument under her bed… just know they are in need of help, not irredeemable nor incurable. They are hurting themselves because they were hurt, and getting down to the problem starts with counseling. Peace, Amy
Wonder, Wander
Young girl lies in tall grass
loves seeing flowers from underneath
Queen Anne’s lace, a parasol in sunshine
Timothy grass swinging above her
She wonders why buttercups shine thing
under her skinny chin
Mother looks out the back window
at her daughter and wonders where
life will take her in ten years
Will she also marry and submerge
in the suburbs, eager for her next drink
Billy finds Ginny in the field
Offers her a bite of his apple
“Ha,” says Ginny, “you’re Eve”
He grins, lies down beside her
innocently, wondering
when he will be attracted to girls
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Poets United Think Tank Thursday, the prompt was “Wonder.”
For Trifecta: Three 33-word stanzas, each describing the thoughts of one person connected to the next. I chose the situation each was in, mirrored against the naivete of youth versus the bitter truth of the suburban housewife. This is me, my Mom, and my best friend, John (who finally figured it out: Never!)
Dreadlocks and the Three Rednecks
Shaniqua was only 13, but she took the A train uptown every Saturday to visit her grandmother, an invalid who depended on help from neighbors for everything from groceries to doctor visits. Her grandma loved these visits for the sheer joy of her granddaughter’s sense of humor and her growing knowledge of old jazz records. This was the day Shaniqua would be introduced to “Ma” Rainey on 78s.
Today, the A was hopping with Yankee fans, headed up to watch Steinbrenner’s investment pay off once again as they chugged warm beer and scattered the bleachers with peanut shells. Shaniqua noticed the predominantly white ridership, so she pulled up her hoodie and gazed obliquely out the greasy subway window. Three rednecks were harassing a gay guy when they turned their attention to someone they assumed would be more intimidated by them.
“Hey, little girl, you ain’t related to Rosa Parks, are ya?” drawled an out-of-towner, sitting pretty even though several older women were forced to stand, strap-hanging. His buddy caught on, got up from his seat (a senior widow slipped in fast as a New York minute, smiling smugly about getting off her tired feet). The second guy: “Why’re you wearin’ that hoodie? You a gangsta type? Member of a gang? We hear tell there’s all sorts of you people on these trains, stealing wallets and such.”
Finally, Number Three, cracking his knuckles, bellowed, “ARE YOU DEAF, LITTLE GIRL?” They surrounded her now. Sweat on her brow, dripping into her basket of homemade muffins. (C’mon, Mr. Ellington, make the A Train go faster.)
They ripped down the top of her hoodie to reveal her spectacular dreadlocks, woven by her mother since age five. “Looky here, boys, we got us a real Jamaican girl. Say, why don’t you teach us to dance? Do you know any Bob Marley?”
Her stop was coming. “Well, I can’t dance with you,” she said to the first cracker, “because I don’t like guys in flannel shirts. And you,” she pointed to Number Two, “are racist and just plain mean. I don’t think you like yourself much.” By this time, the grannies had all surrounded the group, ready to take action with purses and canes if the men got too close to Shaniqua. She was somebody’s granddaughter, after all.
“And you,” she said to Knuckle Cracker as the train pulled into her stop at 171 and Fort Washington. “You are so pathetic you’re wearing a Mets cap to Yankee Stadium, you have a mullet, and your pants are hanging so low my pastor would kick you out of the church. You’re a wannabe with bad underwear and a butt-crack.”
As they stood slack-mouthed, she hopped off the train. “And you don’t pay attention, because you missed your stop. Go back to 161st Street and catch the B over east.” Then the grandmas smiled knowingly at each other. It was going to be a long trip to the stadium for the non-residents of Harlem.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta: Unlimited words, rewrite “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”
Photo courtesy of www.littleafrica.com.
Sarah’s Schnooks
“Such a schlemiel Sarah’s seeing,” said Shamira.
“The sort who schleps in for supper at seven when he
was invited at six. Sorry-ass schmuck.”
Aunt Sophie, sporting the same schmatta she’s worn since
the seventies, sighs. “Never simple for Sarah. She
schooled at City and now seems to savor those
simpletons and shegetzes. Shitheads who schmooze
soup to shtup!” She giggles. “And sure, I know from
shtupping, don’t look so surprised.”
Shamira, stirring soup (matzoh balls soft as satin),
says, “Stanley should have stepped up seven years ago.
Sarah could do worse than the cantor of our shul.”
Sophie smiles. “Sarah with Stanley? Sterling cantor,
but that schnozz! And I suspect he’s a snore in the sack.
He schpritzes during prayers and his spiel is too slick.
If Sarah doesn’t size them up,” she snickers, “there’s always
Sylvie the yenta!”
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter S and the extensive Yiddish I learned in my youth. Always fascinated with Jewish culture, my daughter’s father is Jewish. Consult Wiki for words you don’t know! Also at Poets United, my poetic home. Amy
At Sunday Scribblings (glad I’m back on course after a break), we were given a one-word prompt: LIMITS. Click the Scrib link and then on the poets’ names (which are linked to their blogs) to check out other folks! Peace, Amy
HAD IT UP TO HERE
I’ve had it up to here
‘cause my daughter, who is ‘queer’
is not welcome in my sister’s home
I’ve taken all I’ll stand
from all those who would demand
that I discard my kid like a dead battery
I’m telling all the world
she is perfect, she’s my girl
If you don’t love her, please don’t waste your prayers
On Riley or her mom
because we know we are BOMB
and anyone who doesn’t get it can get stuffed
I tried to make this rhyme
to some extent, it is fine
but I couldn’t rhyme “battery” with “flattery” because that concept is entirely absent from some people’s hearts. But at least it’s truthful!
© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
Sharp Little Pencil 