they
say that hell is crowded, yet,
when you’re in hell,
you always seem to be alone.
& you can’t tell anyone when you’re in hell
or they’ll think you’re crazy
& being crazy is being in hell
& being sane is hellish too.
those who escape hell, however,
never talk about it
& nothing much bothers them after that.
I mean, things like missing a meal,
going to jail, wrecking your car,
or even the idea of death itself.
when you ask them,
“how are things?”
they’ll always answer, “fine, just fine…”
once you’ve been to hell and back,
that’s enough
it’s the greatest satisfaction known to man.
once you’ve been to hell and back,
you don’t look behind you when the floor creaks
and the sun is always up at midnight
and things like the eyes of mice
or an abandoned tire in a vacant lot
can make you smile
once you’ve been to hell and back.
Showing posts with label abused. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abused. Show all posts
3/27/20
3/2/18
The Forms - Sharon Olds
I
always had the feeling my mother would
die
for us, jump into a fire
to
pull us out, her hair burning like
a
halo, jump into water, her white
body
going down and turning slowly,
the
astronaut whose hose is cut
falling
into
blackness. She would have
covered
us with her body, thrust her
breasts
between our chests and the knife,
slipped
us into her coat pocket
outside
the showers. In disaster, an animal
mother,
she would have died for us,
but
in life as it was
she
had to put herself
first.
She
had to do whatever he
told
her to do to the children, she had to
protect
herself. In war, she would have
died
for us, I tell you she would,
and
I know: I am a student of war,
of
gas ovens, smothering, knives,
drowning,
burning, all the forms
in
which I have experienced her love.
5/24/17
HEAVENLY CREATURE - Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz
I remember the day you showed up at the bus
stop:
quiet, pale, a thick veil of dark hair, we
stared
at each other through overgrown bangs. We were
just
beginning our dry sentences at Baldi Middle
School.
In those days, our jeans would be tattooed
weekly
with the coded names of every boy who flicked
his eyes our way. The backs of our hands became
necks and lips for practicing on. I once even
doused my backpack with my brother’s cologne,
a sad effort to at least smell like I’d had a
boyfriend.
Walking around your housing complex, we’d stare
through the windshields of every man who drove
by.
We thought of our bodies as dangerous chemicals,
our breasts as match tips waiting for love’s
flinty gaze
We were sure all the boys around had firecracker
hearts
just waiting to explode. And look, I know I know
I know
I am not telling the whole truth. Things in your
house
were different, were not right, were accepted
because
maybe no one knew any better, or maybe they did
and didn’t care. And whenever the whole dark
truth
would spill out, I remember I’d gather my
features
into the center of my face, unable to figure out
the right combination for my concern, for fresh
alarm.
I’d forget how to sit, how to blink, breathe.
It’s true,
sometimes you look back and all the things
you should have done rise up like volcanic
islands,
whole civilizations, whole existences, whole
lifetimes.
But what did we know then? Fourteen, I took
the hammer of my dumb tongue and tried to tap
comfort into your impossibly small ears,
your impossibly small fists. We were kids,
and the future was our dependable escape plan.
We’d be gone soon, so you had just better suffer
through
it all now. We’d be gone, so until then, I tried
to make you laugh. I’m sorry I never realized
I could’ve unlocked your exit earlier, that I
could’ve released your story from the shogun
of my own throat. The letters you send me now
are like postcards from that hopeful future:
you are okay, you are alright, with no return
address.
So this poem is a telegram to let you know that
I still think about you, that I’m still proud of
you,
that when I remember you, I always remember you
as beautiful.
12/11/15
How to kill a living thing - Eibhlin Nic Eochaidh
Neglect it
Criticize it to its face
Say how it kills the light
Traps all the rubbish
Bores you with its green
Continually
Harden your heart
Then
Cut it down close
To the root as possible
Forget it
For a week or a month
Return with an axe
Split it with one blow
Insert a stone
To keep the wound wide open.
The Untrustworthy Speaker - Louise Glück
Don't listen to me; my
heart's been broken.
I don't see anything
objectively.
I know myself; I've learned
to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
that's when I'm least to be
trusted.
It's very sad, really: all my
life I've been praised
for my intelligence, my
powers of language, of insight.
In the end, they're wasted--
I never see myself,
standing on the front steps,
holding my sister's hand.
That's why I can't account
for the bruises on her arm,
where the sleeve ends.
In my own mind, I'm
invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem
selfless,
we're the cripples, the
liars;
we're the ones who should be
factored out
in the interest of truth.
When I'm quiet, that's when
the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like
white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray
house, the azaleas
red and bright pink.
If you want the truth, you
have to close yourself
to the older daughter, block
her out:
when a living thing is hurt
like that,
in its deepest workings,
all function is altered.
That's why I'm not to be
trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
is also a wound to the mind.
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