My youth was short. While others count
Their early years as twenty five, mine number
Roughly twelve. And these dozen
Were always overshadowed by the need to do
Better, as if his praise were some prize to be earned.
Well I grudgingly received it – and more
That I didn’t ask for. Who would,
Knowing that which would come?
And I had never even thought of it.
Little more than a child. Surely the
Earth herself cried out at my violation.
For twelve full months his twisted superiority
Defile me. Even while evidence of womanhood
Was written in blood on me, the demand would come
And the humiliation would make my mind
Squirm and twist and writhe as my body on
Those night, for the full year that my father
Genteelly relieved my mother of the task of tucking me in.
Obviously there are scars – mental ones I should say.
Yet there are nights when my mind still
Bolts from side to side, eyes rolling frantically
And the cry of “Mum!” stilled on my tongue.
A good friend wrote, “Living like this, you exist in a prison
Of your own making, structured from snow and ice
And steel. There is no hope where there is only stone.
I believe that there is nothing to restore
Your violated spirit. Yours as ever, John.”
Such concern! Tears threaten. Was I right?
Or did I have none? Last night I killed my father.
It was easy. While he was looking down from
The parking lot, I hit him with the bottle,
Pushed him over the edge. There was no-one
In the street. I took my car and left
By the automatic gate. So easy! Even if
They catch me, I do not care. There is the gun for me.
And yet I’m plagued by doubts – was this quick murder justice?
No, it was not -
He should have died in hours of agony.