Page 5 - A Qualified Acceptance of Sorrow

Embodiment

I.

All day daddy smokes his Camels
and stands at the drafting board, or leans on the stool's edge
he works in white and blue, marking the pathways of electric current,
I think

he comes home tired, sometimes angry.

With that strange knowledge of the married,
mommy embodies his boss' management style,
echoes her mother's tone of voice
as she threatens:

you'd better be good …
you'd better get this mess cleaned up …
you'd better get along with your sisters …
… or you'll be in serious trouble when you father comes home

I learn to keep my mouth shut I learn to hold my breath I learn it's best to be invisible

I grow up

In almost every job I encounter a bully
threats pile up like 'Occupant' mail at a vacated house
until I move on

tired of placating, tired of the tight feeling in my throat
embarrassed that I cannot be direct, and must seek reassurance elsewhere
horrified by the bully within me.

I am voicelessness, I am fear, I am anger

II.

Mama lies on the floor, her feet support me
as I center myself on them body taut, arms out
it is the only way I’ve ever flown.

Mama packs the tuna fish sandwiches, the thermos of Kool-Aid
and drives us to the park
we climb in the cockpit of a grounded B-52
we walk across the wing and jump to the sand below.