This poem is so good that I can’t help but read it over and over, even though it rips out my guts every single time.
Some things leave no room for misunderstanding,
like your climbs to the tops of towering pines,
and your belief that you can never cry.
At age five, you dream of a woman
with wings like a bat dressed all in black.
She swoops down, grabs you, pins you in her lap,
and while hitting you over and over, she’s whispering
that it will end when you stop struggling;
so you pretend to relax until her grip loosens
and then you fight to escape, but each time
her strength overwhelms you. It takes
several beatings before you realize
she is trying to help you, she is teaching you
how to be brave—
how to be so still
that you can let yourself have no feeling
when the scratchy hands are pressing into you,
like the night lets itself be swallowed by darkness.
An eight-year-old now, you’re standing
outside their locked bedroom door…
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