On entering the tunnel, I see her – pallor a notable shade of ghostly
Tattered, her dress hangs in billowing folds of transparency; she beckons
No words pass between us, but her haunting gaze begs audience
So, I bear witness to her tale – a gruesome re-enactment of her death
Slow and agonizing, her femininity scalded and tortured till flesh festered
and infection drove her to madness – no solace offered, no medicine rendered
No more than a child, I now see – a tragic retelling of innocence turned victim
Do not look away, her spirit commands, the suffering continues, and I will haunt
Till justice recognizes the crime and restitution restores balance.
(Reena’s Xploration offered the opening line, and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt – notable– added to the narrative. This apparition appeared to me in that tunnel between waking and sleep, begging that I share her story. Image my own)
She’s in the kitchen cleaning, prepping sweetness, wishes
to nurture childlike longings – sugar laden gifts, honeyed chops
hooks her men with culinary preciseness – as legend prescribes
wants a strong, reliable type to stir her ovaries keep her dishing up love
Disappointment, like raw egg drips off china plates – shame of misadventures she cannot scrub away
only serves tea now – the smell of liquor mingled with cigarettes in lecherous calloused hands turns her stomach
avoids the coffee maker in the same way, despises the way the bitter brew makes her head spin – wits need to be in order
has settled now as hostess caters to near strangers whose attention, riveted by television screens, are
lulled by the rhythmic sounds of her sanitizing while stew simmers in pot, dreams of romance shelved.
(Originally titled “Hatched”, this poem first appeared here in July, 2017. I am submitting an edited version for Reena’s Xploration challenge: Stranger in a strange land. Image my own)
(Warning: this poem discusses the effects of sexual assault, and may be disturbing to some readers.)
Back and forth I travel, searching for her – retrace every bend, curve, detour – back to the water, the sand, the beach where I lost her…haunted
by velvet brown eyes – bedroom eyes, they told her, men with greedy loins, calculating – I lost her to the lure of alcohol, to the pounding beat of drums in those smoky corners so far removed from the purity of our dreams…
It’s been an arduous journey, some days so lost in the daze of forgetting; I cycle back, memories of manhood exposed egos craving stroking, learning what men wanted, learning to numb
disappointment with fast-talk and all-nighters, suppressing tears discovering that words hold no promise and water is deep, and going within is a dark, foreboding place, and worth…
is shrouded by the discovery that the father she adored was not as we’d thought, and that this primal urge for mating was a trap…. designed to eradicate beauty, not enhance it…
I need to find her, hold her afloat in sacred waters, help her feel the healing light of a thousand women’s hearts all bleeding as one,
all tainted by the same convoluted messages – that lust is sinful and copulation a man’s domain, and that in order to be espoused, she must forgo her nature – tame the wild settle…
but as much as I travel these lonely roads, I cannot find her, the traces of her innocence washed away by the tides…lines now on this aged face
If you see her, please hold her close… hold her until the beauty of her being is solid knowing and the shame vanquished Hold her till she understands the light she was born to be.
( Wayward Daughter first appeared here in February, 2017, and was published in the anthology: We Will Not Be Silenced: The Lived Experience of Sexual Harassment and Sexual Assault…, by Indie Blu Publishing, 2018. This version is edited. I am submitting it for my weekly challenge: roads. Art my own.)
One Woman's Quest 