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About This Poem
She Was Nine
She was nine,
her sister
older.
He was a big
thirty-five
mean drunk
coming down
from Saturday night,
slicked-back
black hair,
Hawaiian shirt,
dark
wolverine
eyes.
He hit her arm
hard,
uttered an order
under his breath.
She looked down
(small tears).
What else
could she do but
pull away,
turn away
sideways,
offer less of
herself
as a target if
the first blow
hadn’t dispelled his
anger?
Her sister’d
been there before.
She knew
what to do —
drop back a half-step,
look down too
(don’t see),
shed quiet tears
for her sister.
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