Because—
today the rain slants in familiar direction
needling the generous porches
of homes built in the era of
my early childhood.
Because—
when I looked in the mirror
I saw that AGAIN I wasn’t a grown up,
but only pretended to be. Even with the grey hair, no grown up here.
(Oh, my mother!
tucked safely in her room
muffled in comforting flannel
silent now, except for the ritualistic clearing of her throat every 30 seconds or so.
I think I remember knowing and not knowing
that she was awake and our breaths, our heartbeats, hers and mine
for a fraction of the time it takes for a snowflake to fall mutely to earth
(or for the breaking of a hymen)
flowed and rose in syncopated rhythm;
she must have held her breath too
maybe thinking how stupid does he think I am? I heard her bedroom door creak open.)
Also because—
Sidewalks contain the wisdom of the ages.
They weary me; I will never know their petrified secrets
and no one will tell me anything.
My bedroom looms black in the blacker night
like a celestial demerit against my soul.
Even the stars won’t lend their light!
I am stricken by the thought that my feet are too wide
and I’m freckled
and my hair is too thick
and I have small hands,
And for this I must be punished:
See how I lay my body out
in mute compliance,
hold it taut
like the palm of the hand
awaiting the teacher’s sadistic strike of the ruler,
Lay it out to receive its just due:
Thwack (sting) thwack thwack!
I will not flinch though the sky may fall
and mother lies pinched in the dark,
sucks in her breath, half stunned by the brutality
mostly glad though that it’s me and not her.
With a sigh of middle class suburbanized relief,
she turns over facing the wall
holds her body relaxed,
not rigid like mine.
This is not her night, it’s mine;
she can afford the luxury
of cotton nightgown warm on hairless legs—
can dare go to bed with plastic rollers in her hair:
he won’t be looking at her tonight, not like that.
She sighs contentedly into her pillow
for the head start this gives her on the next day.
Because—
I bled in the dark
and no one saw and mother whispered:
there is no blood on my hands, I wash my hands of her
as the back door slammed
and spaghetti water boiled on the back burner
and I hid my sheets with the furtiveness
of all shameful things.
Because—
When I ran like a fury outside to play,
(to play my role of normal kid, oh skip to my lou!)
my feet
shook off the dust of them:
of him
of mother.
(There now, hush, that’s why.)
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