Burning eyes,
tears running down her face,
he tore her heart out again
as he put her in her place.

Pain racked her body
and hate-filled her mind,
but she couldn’t let it out
because it wasn’t the time.

Another day in this marriage,
another day with him,
she hated his whiskey breathe
as he climbed within.

Holding her down,
covering her face,
fighting for air, how the hell
did she get in this place?

Sitting in the bathtub
alone and afraid,
looking at all the marks
his ***** hands made.

Rage building, consuming within,
watching the blood swirl in the tub
and knowing her sweet baby girl,
was gone then…..
~

Dad, please don’t hurt me
It hurts my skin, leaves bruises
Thrash me not, oh please

Come with me, little brother
Come run away with me
To a land distant from here
Where there is no violation
Towards you or me
No purple, red or blue bruises
To adorn our brown hides
I know you are hurt
Deep inside your little soul
I wish I could have been
Able to help you become whole
But now no more, little one
Let it be our secret
That we ran away to oblivion
Away from dad to be on our own

I pretended
your mouth
didn't water
for them

You see...

I would
imagine riding
bikes along
shores with
my sunny
closed eyes
and la la la -

but

I could
hear them
***** you
out behind
don't signs
at the end
of the bed

Being quiet
was always
louder than
ice dropped
in warm tequila

POP!

Sheets were
never tucked
quite tight
enough

Me, a teacher of poetry, the idea is insane.
Yet I’m here once a week at the nuthouse. Oops. Hospital.
A lunch conversation with a nurse.
“That old guy, Russell, he seems so gentle,” I say. “So normal.”
Russell writes about hummingbirds.
“It’s either here or prison,” the nurse says.
“Oh,” I say.
Actually I’m not allowed to ask about patients.

But the nurse, now she’s worked up.
“Russell had custody of his granddaughter,” the nurse says.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“The mom died,” the nurse says, “the baby was six months.”
“Oh,” I say.
“To call him ‘*** offender’ sounds too clinical,” the nurse says.
I say nothing.
“He must’ve bought Vaseline by the bucket,” the nurse says.
“Um…” I say.
“He ****** that baby every day,” the nurse says.
“Three hundred and sixty-four days a year,” the nurse says.
“Christmas, she got a holiday,” the nurse says.
“Oh,” I say, and I push my plate away.

“Sorry,” the nurse says, “I ruined your appetite.”
“Not your fault,” I say.
“I hate hummingbirds,” the nurse says. “I hate poetry.”
I say nothing.
“Can a poem be ugly?” the nurse asks.
I reach for a fresh napkin, slide it across the tabletop.
“If a poem could ****,” the nurse says, “I’d write one.”
From my pocket, I hand her a pen.