Molly poems on Hello Poetry

Terry Collett Oct 2013

Glug glug glug goes Daddy’s bottle the beer going down his Adam’s apple rising and falling his eyes closed as if in some kind of prayer his lips over the end like a baby’s lips over its mother’s dug glug glug glug as he lifts the bottle higher and Mother saying nothing loud enough for him to hear but muttering by the sink her voice low pitched but angry and she casting him the over the shoulder look now and then but looking away as soon as she thinks he might see her but he doesn’t his eyes are still closed and you watch Daddy from the big chair opposite taking in his unshaven chin the closed eyes the wet lips the hairy hand holding the bottle his shirt open showing his hairy chest and the faded jeans stained and torn and Mother says Ain’t you got nothing else to do than stare at your daddy Molly ain’t there some chores you could do? She eyes you now her liquidy eyes focusing on you fixing you like some butterfly on a board her words catching your ears and pulling Bad enough him sitting there drinking without you just watching him and knowing there’s work to be done Mother adds spitting the words now so that phlegm sits on her lower lip and Daddy opens his eyes and looks around moving the bottle away from his lips and holding it in mid air his mouth open the tongue lingering there and he says What you looking at child ain’t you seen a man drinking before and as your Mommy says you must have chores waiting to be done and don’t gaze at me with those small beady eyes of yours get going before I take my belt to your little *** and you lift yourself from the chair and look at Mother standing there her hands wet from the sink wiping them on her apron giving Daddy the stare her eyes damp with soon to flow tears and Daddy goes as if to swipe you as you pass his large hand just inches from your *** and you run out into the porch and into the sunlight with the smells of the yard and hens and sounds and sensations and raised voices from within and you go sit over by the barn and let them get on with it breathing in the air letting your head feel freshness sense old and new smells and thinking what chores to do if any and besides they’ll not come looking for you or worry where you’ve got to and the chores can wait and you sit and watch the house listening to the voices waiting for the smashing of cups and plates and pans flying and cries and shouts but they don’t come just that odd silence and the house just standing there like some mausoleum and you watch a while longer your *** numbing as you sit there remembering that last stinging hand to hit your *** and redden and after a quarter of an hour you get up and walk slowly to the back door and peep in to see where they are to catch sight of them but they’re not there the room is empty the bottle on the table lying on its side and so you go to the stairs and listen for any sounds but hear nothing and so you take one step at a time holding your hands together fearing Daddy might appear at the top his big eyes gazing at you but he doesn’t appear and so you reach the top and wander along the passage almost on tiptoe not wanting for them to hear and then you hear sounds voices muffled and Mother moaning and Daddy grunting and you stand by the door with your ear to the wood wondering if Mother’s ok or if Daddy’s beating into her some as he does now and then wondering what Daddy’s doing to Mother and why she doesn’t cry just moans and groans and then you get unsettled and walk away and go down the stairs and sit in the porch and keep your ears open to sounds and sensing fear creep up your spine like Daddy’s fingers do some night under the covers and he pretends they’re spiders and tickle and tickle tickle and touch and touch and touch.

PROSE POEM. COMPOSED IN 2010.

— The End —