when did i lose my wings of girlhood
my cherub face grown sharp the visage of my mother
when did i lose my halo of girlhood
soft botticelli blonde of youth grown dark
when did i lose my robe of girlhood
the hair growing from me in itchy patches resembling man
is that when you stopped loving me?
no longer the babe, the little child of sun
jumping into daddy’s lap
does my reflection scare you?
the face of the monster, the *****
the wicked woman who tainted your heart
dark changeling taken form of nightmare
who haunts you, seeping guilt
the confines of marriage you broke
and left me to rot, a house of horrors and nicotine
of cat **** and suicide letters
a big green basket, plastic, decorative holes in the side
the pill bottles i count: 1, 2, 3, 50!
proud i can count that high
and mother says, “take this one”
like candy on my small tongue
my icarus moment of floating, feeling bumps on popcorn ceiling
falling back
down
down
down
until i am 17, looking in the mirror
my prozac a taunting smile, knowing my throat will close from a fear i can’t remember
the choking struggle of getting better
mothers eyes stare back at me, her ghost a reflection of my heartache
and i realize i was never floating
and we both share the guilt

I grew up
watching my mother
marry a man for safety.
I called him "papa"
though we shared no face.
I saw him struck,
while my brothers hid.
At eighteen, she finally fled,
but not without shame.

My childhood vanished,
believing love was meant to last.
She should have left before life started
but duty kept her back.
Young and alone with a daughter,
trying to make amends for the past.

Things are going as planned.  
My mother died.  
My father died.  
I am alive
and bound to fate

I recite the mantra to myself:  
"A father is fate,"  
drawing the Harrow  
along my fetid soul,  
turning over what was planted in me,  
digging up the weight of his will.

But a counterchant arises,
the one I will use
as the border wall
against this seeding:
“A mother is the memory of mystery."
Her voice plants itself in the silence,  
a reseeding against the pull of his fate,
a defiance growing in the spaces he left behind.

Perhaps that is why my parents died the proper way,  
never knowing how the mystery  
of their three childless children’s lives  
would resolve itself.  
Perhaps they believed  
things left unresolved,  
questions left unanswered,  
were never meant to be—  
that silence itself was an inheritance.  

We were all improper boys in their eyes,
following their path—
but only far enough to leave the family herd behind.
I was the easy one,
the silent, observant child,  
the one who did not rebel,  
but carried no mystery or fate in him,
only the moral weight of a conflicting inheritance.

My father died in peace,
leaving no holes in his life,
not even a burial, just his ashes.
And his boys with all
the usual unresolved regrets,
the proper amount of moral pain
to grieve him properly.

My mother’s death was the pit
in the universe that opened up
a thirty year hell in her sons. She left a mess-
sickly, poor, and with nothing to grant
but her good memories and a moral clarity
torn to tatters by the unscrupulous.

The older took to drugs trying to give her justice.
The younger was too innocent of mind
to truly know and care.  And as far as myself,
the silent observant, middle one—

there are reasons
good mothers die
and poems are meant
to live forever—

there are reasons.

I write to you, Father.
under the weight of my hunger,
the dark circles beneath my eyes.

A map of the nights,
I’ve lived without a name for peace.

Today, the world is a cold knife,
sharp and unrelenting.
God gave me life,
but life is a cruel companion,
like a storm that does not break,
but winds tighter and tighter
around the heart.

Heroes, Father,
are only figures made of dust and ink,
their strength lies in stories,
told in a thousand tongues
but never heard by the hungry.
Never felt by the bones,
that ache for something more,
than the hollow promises of men.

We speak of goodness
like sugar in the morning light,
but it melts in the heat of living.
You read the newspaper,
but I taste only the bitterness of the words
that spill from it.

And still,
the night comes.
The gnashing of teeth
is louder than silence,
and I am here,
waiting for the dawn
to give me something
I can hold in my hands.

This is the world, Father.
A life where hunger is a song,
where darkness is the only companion,
and the weight of being
is too heavy to bear.
But I carry it—
this unbearable weight,
and I ask,
who will weep for me,
who will see the dark circles
beneath my eyes
and say, you are not alone?

When the sun scorches my skin,
When the waves drag me deep,
When the night is dark enough
To haunt me in my sleep—

He knows. He is there.
Strong, though fear may find him,
Steady, though storms may blind him.

He embraces my weakness,
Sees beyond my sight,
Guides me toward wholeness,
Loves me without end.

Thank you, Father.

Once upon a time
a father with his belt –
(with black shiny paint
and a steel which is melt)

And a son, a pen in his hand
A book by his side
A lamp blowing light
Tears in his eyes
The fear in his veins
With his wimped tiny mole

(A cry in his neck and
a gulp in his bones)

Whimp whimp strikes the ground
Wipes the tears,picks up his pen
Shakes up his head,
Gives him a cloth,
to blow up his nose

(A smile on the boy's face
The fallen tear on the page's lace
It dried his shake on hand and
moved him a pace)

Whimp, whimp, whimp – strikes again
(A posed fear on son's face)
Whimp, and he strikes again
(The clueless child, shakes with his pain )

The blats on the floor
and its black remains
The years of slaps
which slashed up cement

(He comes back..
drops his belt   )

A relief in boy's breath

The steel fallen,
relief is felt

The father with his red hands
(Blood flows out at a spot's end )
Smiles at the son

Dark is his eyes like year's repent

(A strung in his mind
He shakes only once,
As he picks up his belt)

He sits on his couch and
acts as he had a father –
with a belt-
(with its black shiny paint and
a steel which is melt.)

I want a Family
A baby inside of me
But what if we turn out like my family?
God,
what if my husband turns out to be like my Father?
What if my baby leaves,
What will I do?

you come in without a warrant
where’s your sense of respect ?
do you enjoy belittling me ?
because this isn’t ‘good cop, bad cop’.
you two are ‘bad cop, weak cop’.

stab through my heart then lay it before your eyes
reading every yearning thought
every meaningful emotion
every single desire i’ve ever had.
and you put it in a police file.

sit my witness in the uneasy room
it’s cold in here.
it’s december.
take your file, open it wide
display my mind, my fears that i’ve kept hidden for so long.

–

COP’S iNTERLUDE

i’M THE ONE
i KNOW WHAT’S BEST.
SURE, i HAVEN’T KNOWN YOU YOUR WHOLE LiFE
BUT i’VE DONE MY RESEARCH.

i’LL HAVE YOU BENT OVER MY CRUiSER
YOUR WRiSTS BOUND TOGETHER BY MY CUFFS
THE METAL iS COLD
i HOPE iT LEAVES A SCAR ON YOUR WHITE HEART

POSSESS YOU BEHiND BARS
i’VE PUBLiCLY EXECUTED YOU
RESiSTiNG ARREST iS SELFiSH, LiTTLE GiRL
YOU ARE LEGALLY CONDEMNED BY MY COMMAND.

DON’T UNDERESTiMATE WHAT i CAN DO.
POWER DRiPS OFF OF MY BODY
i MAY BE A COP
BUT MY LOVE iS A CRiME.

–

you say
you love me
like a father
as if i
was your own blood.

i don’t resist.
because there’s no one but you
! to ruin me
you build me up
then break me down.

i barely had a father,
who could love me.
you did much more than i could ask for,
but that’s the issue.
i didn’t ask for any of this..

i’ll always be your girl
even if i can’t be
disregard the feelings, the flames
the need coursing through your veins
what will you do if i resist ?