Fracture
Fracture
The night has broken herself,
thinking of you.
Even now,
no solace
for the fiery pocket of hate
that I hold in my fists
still burning.
I played the piano
side-by-side with her,
Easter Sunday
where no sun broke
through
the ossuary
you called our home.
She slumped upon my lap
suddenly,
like a grief poisoned,
and
her eyes rolled back
into themselves,
looking for reasons
beyond you.
The music stopped
with the snap-back
click of the neck.
And I try to find the tune
in memory,
but the sharp gasp
of disbelief
resonates instead.
And then, recalling
the blank
paste
of your face,
slapped
hap-hazard
on the stair,
downward spiral,
as she lay
still:
contused and dying.
There are many
things I've forgiven
about
that day
those days
those years
of tragedy,
But
my own silent
cowardice
slaughters
more of my
sunrises
than you do.
Callous now,
the shadow
of you
eclipsing
the moon of my mouth
forever
silent-screaming frozen.
The tomb rock
rolls back
and I emerge,
as if from
crucifixion:
the images
resurrected
as the nightmare
rift
between
then and now
splits itself
in two:
her still-life portrait body,
the bloody ghost
of you.
Notes: I wrote this poem on Eater Sunday, exactly thirty years after my father beat my mother to a pulp. She was hospitalised for three weeks, and no one thought to notify my sister and I, who were at boarding school at the time. The imagery pertains to Easter, to my rebirth from trauma. Although cathartic, it served as a reminder to the horrors of a violent youth.
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