She’d be the one left
Out of conversations,
The onlooker, the dark
Peripheral angel, as
Father called her, always
Looking in, listening to
The talk, adding no words.
She knew the inner voices.
They spoke too frequently
To ignore. Don’t let it get
You down, one voice within
Would say, they’re just all
Too human for you to attend
To their talk or detail or wonder
Where silly speeches like theirs
Evolved. Father spoke of
Ideas, of the highbrow music,
The inner workings of the
Female brain, the morality
Of art. Mother never embraced
Or praised or spoke with
The echoes of love, just the
Voice connected to this and
That not being done or done
Too often or not frequent
Enough with the odd poke,
Shove or cuff. The well paid
Psychologist plumbed her
Depths like some pearl diver
Or tried to draw out of her
Deepness some clues to her
Makeup, something to hook
Theories on, to give him some
Glimmer of satisfaction that
He’d done his job, tied her
Up into a neat bundle of so
And so. She’d heard her parents
Talk of her, discuss her like
Some item bought; dissatisfied
With the poor quality and
Dysfunctionality found. They
Would say that wouldn’t they,
An inner voice said inside her
Head. Be of good cheer, another
Voice would whisper into her
Inner ear, you can dismantle
Them, my dear. She lay in bed
At night gazing at moon and stars,
Making her tongue cluck as she
Listened through the wall to the
Parents (in their own sad way) ****.
2010 POEM.
