Skin of my Teeth
someone could have looked at him and said well of course he has a curved scar across his head from where the metal of the rim of a wheel of a horse-drawn wagon ran over him when he was a child
well of course he was in the war where they used those chemicals
well of course the fits of rage, the jail for brawling. well of course his wife muttered whole dialogues when he was gone.
he: you squaw, you contemptible old bitch.
she: you don’t know how many nights I’ve laid in bed alone, praying for a train wreck.
we all love the little black bear on the bottle. it makes him mellow. the first letter I learn in Spanish is equis.
he: come here, play sweet hour of prayer on the piano.
of course the mindless terror of his son, his guttural shrieks in the night no daddy no daddy no daddy daddy daddy daddy
I learn that satisfying rage has a rhythm I wonder how a scream could come from behind the belly I huddle in the sheets and plug my ears
it is the fifties and we wear skirts to school. of course I hide the mark of a palomino horse, fine zuni work, the belt buckle’s rearing outline on my legs.
well of course the butcher knife in the bedroom,
the blood sprayed across the refrigerator,
every window in the front of the house shattered. he said we ran like rabbits up the hill to the neighbors
well of course the seizure, the first abscess the size of an orange
well of course the second abscess the size of a hen’s egg
well of course the nurse covered with urine
well of course he rolls slowly slowly in his chair across the room to someone with a helmet eating and stabs him with a plastic fork he’s hidden in his sleeve
when he walked there was the crunched left arm and the wide swing of the stiff left leg that is behind me in my dreams
why won’t you forgive his mother asks me but I can't hear her over the noise from the welts on her from the macrame cord. why can’t you just forgive
your breasts look like your mother’s, he says
in my dreams I can’t run fast enough. When he catches me I can’t beat him enough. it has no effect yes rage does indeed have a rhythm
is this will? is this the beast mind of nebuchadnezzar?
well of course
he says to me what he has said always:
my firstborn
Being a Christian author means being a proxy - for the benefit of another and…