Your jolting touch
split open more than my trusting heart
tucked away in virgin chest,
dashed to pieces
more parts of me
than bone, marrow and blood
thought to create.
Your deft smoothness hid the cutting edges
of your sharp anger;
I blinked my surprise at the cold shock of pain
with which you bandaged me
there in your passionless suburban home,
with no corners generous enough
to hide an innocent’s grief.
(I was careful to never step on sidewalk cracks
out of respect for your health,
and surrendered to grasping hands
only when I had no choice…
I really had no choice, mother.)
a lifetime I must spend
unlearning the folly of your example
and grieving the lack of a mother’s love
which never reached me
through layers of polyester,
and the suffocating luxury of wall to wall
in your suburban domain.
Mother: no one gave me permission
to come out of the corner
you banished me to
in the heat of your anger…
(I simply fled when your back was turned.)
If we didn’t have knees, where would our legs bend?
(by Jenny & DD)
We pass by like strangers
isolated within our own heads,
A weird planet, this, populated with the living dead.
We speak in superficial terms
to describe our broken dreams—
but satisfaction guaranteed
is never what it seems.
“I wanted longed to be Twiggy!”
As night weaves its curtain of silence
about me, I remember bright promises
to make all things new.
Anything seems possible, credible,
in still night hours…
but morning is rude
with its blunt metallic thrust
Come home to me at twilight
when the day is at its best and,
weary of this maze of life,
you long for warmth and rest.
Come home to me
before the midnight silence
and threatens to overwhelm you–
come home to me, my friend.
(by Mrs. Homebody, 12/26/81)
They laughed at my feeble attempts to express myself,
then wondered why I spent so much time
alone in my room…
A closed door, blank paper.
A typewriter’s busy, furious clicking:
(Let me write, let me write,
let me fill up the blank skied night
“Isn’t she ever coming out of there?
It’s not normal spending so many hours
alone in that room.”
Sweet oblivion reaches out its kind fingers
and buttons me up,
envelops me in the warmth of my little corner.
Words splash and spill
into midnight hours;
they shake their heads in puzzlement—
I am not one of them—
and I have no explanation to offer.
I slowly kneel down
and mop up the spillage of words
with steady hands.
The ocean beckons me
but I am much too wise
to be so easily led captive,
drowned before nightfall
on the waves of my past…
I found myself
inside a book:
pages of dried ink,
read, but misinterpreted…
My heart’s a prison
from which there is no escape.
You ask me to share its depth
but it is only so many words
and night has set in once more.