Imbalance of Power: Poetry Set

The following set of poetry include works of fiction.  You may find some themes to be offensive or triggering. Please be advised.

 

Blueberry Pancakes

 

The two of them made pancakes in the morning.

The smell of syrup wafting through the air,

and I was in first grade,

stuck learning addition and subtraction, and

jealous that I wasn’t eating any pancakes:

Made with love.

 

He had a wrinkled face and slippers,

and an eyepatch with a hole in it and

no more than three white hairs on top of his head.

He had a scabby arm where the dog would

scratch

him and he wouldn’t heal properly.

He had a maroon shirt with

a white undershirt peeking out, and

He would pick me up from school with her in tow.

 

Her with a small, round face and blonde hair to her

waist

standing under three feet and unable to identify

the difference between a lowercase D and a

lowercase B,

and I was jealous she only went to school for half

of the day and able to make

blueberry pancakes with a smell that would waft through the air.

 

Dad never feared of any monsters getting her.

Dad’s Dad was fierce with his white hair

and eyepatch with its hole.

Yet, he’d close the door to his room

With her only five and confused.

NO ONE THE WISER.

 

Until 15 more revolutions around the sun and the skeletons

of a passed life creep down our halls

and only she is aware of them for all this time,

but now she stands over 5 feet,

Whispering drunk on the phone

ALL THE THINGS SHE CAN NEVER SAY LOUD.

 

And I cry for my sister.

Under 3 feet with hair to her waist.

I cry out wishing I could have helped

LOUD LIKE I WISH SHE HAD CRIED.

 

But I, I, I

Was only in first grade

each time, time, time,

and just jealous that I wasn’t eating any

pancakes:

Made with love.

 

Poem 2: 9.

 

Mom is weak like me.

Her home and its hallways are lined with

piles of old papers, random clothing stacked waist-high,

and boxes of books that I learn to   avoid  running into,

in fear

of a stubbed toe.

 

You can always find boredom in the Monster House,

caved in on itself, neglected.

I hide from the shadows on the wall,

I play with Sister,

I stealthily slip my way into the kitchen: just enough food that won’t be

NOTICED,

and I count down the days until Dad will come for me.

 

There is fear when

the darkness creeps up upon Mom’s face,

hollowed circles under empty eyes,

silhouetted lips turned upward but when I take a closer look:

a trick of the light!

She scowls.

 

I’m told

to watch my back

at age nine.

 

Close my eyes.

Take a breath: 1, 2, 3,

and she grabs hold of me – not letting go

she shakes me, teeth rattling,

neck snapped back, and I wonder:

Where is Dad?

 

Sister sleeps on the couch every night in the front room.

Nowhere near Mom, but she hears a whimper.

and gets up to check,

slowly inching her way down the hallway

in the dark, cold Monster House.

Sister pushes Mom off me.

 

Where is Dad?

Where is Dad?

Where are the people who love us?

Where are the people who are supposed to love her?

The Hurt ask their questions,

as do those who do the hurting.

 

Mom is weak like me.

angry, wronged, disastrously unsure,

set off in a second’s span

and just as afraid of the shadows

as I am.

 

Poem 3: Aquarius

 

Truth, Safety, Justice;

Judge, Jury, Executioner.

 

Blue Badge sat across from me.

A little less hair on his head and a little too much above his

top lip.

 

Truth, Safety, Justice;

Judge, Jury, Executioner.

 

He thought he understood.

He thought he’d seen it all.

Yet, he hadn’t learned to weigh the scales.

 

What happened to him?

 

The first one?

He got away with a lot.

No one knew how he hurt her, so young,

but I did.

Oh, Blue Badge, you mean what happened?

Don’t look at me that way!

It felt as typical as the smile aglow on my face now.

 

He died in old age

aided by the match I lit.

It lit, lit up, lit the bed on fire,

as I watched him

burn.

 

Truth, Safety, Justice;

Judge, Jury, Executioner.

 

And the one who raised you?

 

The second one?

You’ve done your research.

Of course, I never forgot

the house of horrors of my youth

or the person within it that never protected, but always

hurt.

 

The boxes that my abuser collected grew tall, and

Year after year I wondered when

I would escape.

Would anyone come for me?

I tried to forgive her, but, finally,

she chased me as I jumped through the man-made maze

and the boxes, well, they toppled.

 

I can hardly be blamed for her mistakes,

but I walked out the door to freedom

as she called out; trapped.

She finally understood what it meant

to be trapped.

Bones crushed, and breath labored.

Trapped.

 

Truth, Safety, Justice;

Judge, Jury, Executioner.

 

And the others?

 

The others barely mattered.

Nameless faces;

objectively objectified.

Honda Civics driving by

yelling at me to give them

my body.

I may have been Anne of Green Gables,

but they were farm animals, and I would

slaughter them like pigs.

 

Truth, Safety, Justice;

Judge, Jury, Executioner.

 

Have you no remorse?

 

Not for the wicked.

Blue Badge didn’t understand.

He hadn’t learned to weigh the scales.

It was life for life,

It was weak against strong,

and it was:

Truth, Safety, Justice.

And I was:

Judge, Jury, Executioner.

 

Couldn’t he see?

It was finally the age of Aquarius.

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