Come to me wearing any disguise:

thorny rose
soft-footed snow
mournful wind
or rain tippity-tapping my window pane.

I will learn to love the snow because of you
learn to pick out the disparate notes of your serenaded love in melancholy music
in the fresh smell of cotton dresses steamed under the iron,
in the remembrance of my father's laughter, though now its merry swirl is not meant for me.

Wear wood smoke as your cologne
and autumn's vulgarity of colors as bold contrast to my drab little self.

Like a blind woman whose fingertips have grown accustomed to Braille
and to the unique texture of things, I will caress the barks of trees
the familiar landscape of knee scabs;

will tremble with the desire to be
the warp and woof of your weaver's loom,
my self woven (bones, hair and all) into a gorgeous tapestry,
another kind of tapestry than what I dreamed I could be.

Ancient of Days,

my dreams are too big for me,
my child's hands drop them clumsily
even as I blink back tears at my ineptness, my lack of grace.

I turn at the slightest rustling sound
my ears keen for your approach.

Oh! I love you so,
I betroth myself to you
to your light in my baby brother's eyes,
and to the sound of your lullaby meant just for me
in the sighing of falling embers
and in sun drenched streets I dare not explore without you.

Sweet Ancient of Days:

tarry with me one more hour
linger near while mother frowns over the stove
and the stepdad smirks at my stupidity;

stay lest my soul wither away
and I lose myself for want of you.

Stay. 

my brother
(all gangly knees and elbows)
bore the brunt of its ferocious aftermath.

Each day after school
I watched his wiry biceps bulge

as his handsaw scritched against the tree
fallen diagonally across our front yard.

The violence of metal on wood
pleased The King of the Mountain;
his greedy eyes shone
at my brother's razor sharp collar bone
vulnerably exposed through white Tee,
and at his jaw set in furious concentration.

This imposed punishment was meant to goad my brother,
meant to tempt him to rage
so that the next time the step dad slugged him
he would feel justified, holy even.

(Kneeling on scratchy couch to watch out the window,
I scrunched my shoulders
 and folded into myself like an accordion, to make of me something smaller.

Sucking in my breath 
I waited for the sky to rain trees
with swollen trunks, their branches thrust skyward
as if warding off a sickening impact with earth.)

My brother, it seemed,
must be punished for the crime of
his existence.

I wondered if The King of the Mountain had conjured up our
Columbus Day Storm  all by himself
for the sole purpose
of proving to my brother
that he had no right
to co-exist with him in the same universe.

I watched until my eyes burned
with the heat of repressed pity
and my brother, sweating and chilled,
laid down his saw
swiped his arm across his forehead
and, straightening up, met my dull gaze
with the scoured look
of shame sawn and whittled down into hatred.

After the storm, my brother cleaned up nature's wrath.
He stood a little taller and his eyes, when they met his abuser's,
burned unflinching.

After the storm we feigned collective memory loss
pretending that nothing in our family dynamic had shifted, roots and all.
We sat down to meals silent and repressed,

we picked up our forks
as if the step dad hadn't just won a major battle,
as if my brother's days in that household were not numbered.

The hem trails long;
I trip and stumble
as you watch through slitted eyes
this clumsy ballet of sour shame.

The pin curls wound
around your knowing fingers
wink their sly perfection
at my little girl ineptness,
at the folly of being me.

 
and tentative petting
(over the clothes only) in cold  back seats.
Having nothing to prove
( for they had no need to earn their worth)
they could afford to set rules,
could dare to boldly cut their eyes
at panting boyfriends
and patiently slap away square hands
fumbling with nylon encased flesh.

You often accused me of stealth--
but I was not the sneak, mother,
not the pilferer
or thief.
I wanted
only what was mine:

to blossom naturally
without the topic of  my puberty
being the theme of jesting dinner time conversation.

For oh!  There are so many means
of hobbling daughters.
One has only to convince them
of their ugly pinched selves
while shoving begrudged flesh
into drab dresses and childish, outgrown jumpers
meant to hide a burgeoning beauty.

One has only to deny
the blossom on the rose
and, come twilight,
wilting has set in,

and with it
a kind of root rot
for which there is no cure.

Drooping, the head lolls
and caves in on itself,
Becomes another sort of obscenity:

the obscenity of beauty deliberately destroyed.

Thus decapitated
thus hobbled,
I knelt beside my bed,
knobby knees  stabbing the hardwood floor like knives,
my body swaying slightly with the wanting of it
knowing it was hopeless to ask
(but-- in for a pound in for a penny:)

Dear God,
may I please
please may I wear my ring,

and not go to hell for it.

Amen.

preening in your fruit-of-the-looms
as if I were a lover
to be wooed and seduced,
as if I wanted more
than to eat my morning cereal in peace,
spoon held tightly
in child-sized hand.


(Oh, see how I erase the careless smudge marks
you left on the tablet of my heart!)

You are reduced to

a mere typo on paper,
the mistake of you magically rectified
with spell check,
an adult’s version of a child’s sturdy pink eraser.

(“What are you writing—a book?”
this followed by your caustic laugh
and your sadistic game of playing keep away
with my lined tablet…)

And all the while the writer in me
took note,
remembering my teacher’s admonishment
to use the most descriptive adjectives,

and
to avoid using a passive voice
in my writing.

“What I Did Last Summer”
was a confounding assignment
for I couldn’t very well write:

“I spent my summer vacation dodging my stepdad’s advances,
hiding in my  backyard fort every chance I got,
and turning my head, pretending not to see
the shame of his nakedness.”

I’m writing you out of my soul
the nub of my pencil
scritching the comfort of truth
on every line, knowing you can’t snatch away my tablet now,

can’t mock my passion for words
or stop me from writing
what I really did
all those many summer ago
while mother waited on you hand and foot,
and my cheeks burned hot with secret shame
and someone oh someone
forgot to rescue me . . .

It’s almost finished now
and worth every ache of writer’s cramp
to get it all down once and for all.

Next comes the fun part,
the magical rub of the eraser

or the click of the delete button:

Oh unholy one,
I’m writing you out of my soul
I’m writing you out
I’m writing you
I’m writing….

(my pencil is mightier than your sword)

See how I lay my body out
in mute compliance,
hold it taut
like the palm of the hand
awaiting the teacher’s sadistic strike of the ruler,

Lay it out to receive its just due:

Thwack (sting) thwack thwack!
I will not flinch though the sky may fall
and mother lies pinched in the dark,
sucks in her breath, half stunned by the brutality
mostly glad though that it’s me and not her.

With a sigh of middle class suburbanized relief,
she turns over facing the wall
holds her body relaxed,
not rigid like mine.
This is not her night, it’s mine;
she can afford the luxury
of cotton nightgown warm on hairless legs--
can dare go to bed with plastic rollers in her hair:

he won’t be looking at her tonight, not like that.
She sighs contentedly into her pillow
for the head start this gives her on the next day.

Because

I bled in the dark
and no one saw and mother whispered:
there is no blood on my hands, I wash my hands of her
as the back door slammed
and spaghetti water boiled on the back burner
and I hid my sheets with the furtiveness
of all shameful things.

Because

When I ran like a fury outside to play,
(to play my role of normal kid, oh skip to my lou!)
my feet
shook off the dust of them:

of him
of mother.

(There now, hush, that's why.)

I first looked up to you with admiration.
I thought you would provide shelter

from the searing heat of the day,
and shield me from life's random storms.

Your limbs I imagined
would be excellent for climbing
and your structure provide a sturdy foundation
for a fort of my own making,
a haven of sorts should I ever need one.

Year after year
I waited for your limbs to blossom their beauty,
waited in mute expectation
for their enfolding embrace.

How could I have known
your trunk was rotten, eaten to the core
with a disease fatal to elms;

that your roots never went deep enough
to nourish the heart of you
branching out to your very limbs,

much less bend down with strong gentleness
to cradle this little twig called me:

frail and broken, trampled underfoot
by ruthless men
and your stately inflexibility?

There, there
I won't worry me so.
Throw the twig in with the kindling
and watch the fire glow . . .

If He were to rise on my behalf
with righteous indignation, if only a portion of my enemy's curses
smote me and tore at my hard-won peace--

If His hedge of protection
set boundaries on the evil which walks by day
and never sleeps by night--

If once more I heard the sweet strains of serenading love
calling me forth from my hiding place,
and no amount of head lowering
could shake this hound of heaven's ardent persuit--

oh! how my heart would stir within,
bringing me to my knees
in soul submission.

I would rise . . .
I would rise and bestir myself;
Seeking He who my soul desires above all others,
I would shake the dust of this earth from my feet,
bare and scarred, and making haste

would run to meet Him:

my soul
my darling
my lover, once more.