Tesslynn O’Cull was only 3-years-old,
when they found her body in a grave near Sweet Home.
It was the worst case of child abuse they’d ever seen
thanks to Jesse Compton and methamphetamine.
This beautiful child was tortured to death,
and I vowed that until my very last breath,
I would tell her story so we’d never forget,
for society owes her at least this debt.
Others saw the abuse, yet they did not tell,
and this child’s life was a living hell.
She was shocked, raped and beaten and no one cared,
as her mother watched, Tesslynn sat and stared.
Tesslynn dared not scream or she’d have to pay
when Jesse threw knives and punches her way.
People came and went, but refused to step in,
so high on drugs that it didn’t matter to them.
Stella Kizer and Jesse Compton must pay their dues,
still the story of Tesslynn is now old news,
and though some may forget, I will keep my vow
to keep her memory alive somehow.
There’s a picture of Tesslynn on my office wall,
and at night in my dreams I can hear her call.
As she reaches out from beyond the grave,
I weep for the child that we could not save,
I weep for the child that we could not save…
"Write your dreams," said Carolyn Kizer,
(She, the wiser of our workshop fools.)
New rules for us, so I rise from bed,
still cordoned in sleep to record this one
of many in which you star, now far
away, to help you pack, knowing you'd be
back always, from where without me,
time took you. In the midst of this,
you turned to embrace and enter me
with such ferocity of passion as was your
fashion, anyway; the door shut against all
comers, no pun intended, until our first-
born knocked and entered as he did
that February day so long ago, and when
you were gone, he said, "I never thought
of you as lovers," and I said, laughing,
"How did you think we got you? by
divine design and direct intention. "
Husband of late, you attend me now,
it seems, only in the parallel
universe of dreams.
Write your dreams, advised
Carolyn Kizer, but none the wiser,
she did not imagine these nightly
screenplays the mind designs
with no director, no choreographer,
no paid performers. They come
at will and leave at will in a stay
of reality day cannot provide. I
like it here. No!, love it. Stronger
words are needed for these trips
along territory uncharted and
without my say. Only the mind
knows landscapes, cities, countries
of stopped clocks where people
you love, or do not love, reside.
By dream's decry, there's
forever sunlight on this ride.
The night's outside.
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