Abuse
Singer sounded like "stinger,"
Fifty years gone, but fresh....
The long sewing machine drive belt
Hung thin and waiting by the broom.
Mother handled it like a snake,
Writhing in the after school air
When she used it to soothe
Menopausal rages.
Welts and shame, rose-red arose
When she stripped them of their clothes;
Struck hard the tender flesh:
Buttocks, thighs,
Panicked wrists and hands,
Flailing in the silence of a preacher's home.
"I never struck in anger,"
She likes to say.
A counselor chills to hear...
A cool-headed striker of children so sick
To give her children the gift
Of bruises, without emotion.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
Abuse
Singer sounded like "stinger,"
Fifty years gone, but fresh....
The long sewing machine drive belt
Hung thin and waiting by the broom.
Mother handled it like a snake,
Writhing in the after school air
When she used it to soothe
Menopausal rages.
Welts and shame, rose-red arose
When she stripped them of their clothes;
Struck hard the tender flesh:
Buttocks, thighs,
Panicked wrists and hands,
Flailing in the silence of a preacher's home.
"I never struck in anger,"
She likes to say.
A counselor chills to hear...
A cool-headed striker of children so sick
To give her children the gift
Of bruises, without emotion.
No room for child abuse. NONE.
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