I Wanted to Punch You for Telling
I couldn’t though,
knowing you’d hit me back with tucked fist of tight-bitten nails. Instead, I
wrote you on Strawberry Shortcake stationary demanding to know why you told on
our two am trips to the woods making sacred projects from fantasies—ours alone.
Sometimes we needed to
hide out under our arches of hard branches. We cleared brush down to the creek,
setting cracked glass into a secret stoop where the water laps. We planned to
slow our pursuers till we could sail away from our little port. I insisted our
fort be kept quiet, ready when you needed to flee your drunkard or I, my
pastor—fathers whose boats we avoided rocking, whose unbalanced bows sent us
overboard anyway till we begged our betrayers to drag us back in.
Never ask a child to
keep secrets, your Momma agreed with my Momma while they nursed our sisters at
the kitchen table. You and I argued hard over how hot the griddle should be to
cook forty-five silver dollar pancakes for nine siblings. So you told the Moms
we were middle-of-the-night worker ants, preparing our haven for the day we’d
run. In their horror, they forbade us from returning to our construction site
in the woods.
But they couldn’t
promise to protect us instead. For this women togetherness, this swooping
children under their wings, this mid-day kitchen gathering, men at work, were
their own haven from their husbands’ fragile, angry triggers.
Two lifetimes ago, Catherine performed her poetry in Madrid. Now
her main jobs are to write and hang out with her family. Her work has appeared
in the Journal of the American
Medical Association, Pank, Victorian
Violet Press, and The
Grief Diaries. Her chapbook, Soul
Full of Eye, is published through Aldrich Press.
Find her on twitter
@czickgraf. Watch and read more at www.caththegreat.blogspot.com
Stream-of-Conscious! Yes..it's sad that is not seen nearly anymore. It catches people off guard. But it mirrors thought as thought goes.ReplyDelete