the tadpoles in my hands
as we safely transported then
to observed in puddles of ignorance.
the look in my brothers eyes when he told me
'we are port-holes
looking through each other
at one another'
the mountains that surrounded our
childhood house;
merely sand hills awaiting construction.
my fathers fears, my mothers hope.
my sisters stories. my brothers worries.
the forest we escaped to.
the trees, the wind, the ferns, the ferns,
red woods,
and fir trees ...
and the smell
of the cold, damp earth.
it smelled lonely, sad and bloody.
an earth stained by sorrow and greed.
so green, so wide, so desolate.
My fear of the 'White Witch' and
how my brother and sister made me afraid...
the clay bank;
the rusty blood stains ,
they told me were victims
of a lost cause,
screams crying out
from the ground
the black robes buried in the hole
in the bank.
the first time I felt fear
was there.
the first time I knew
darkness
years later, when I was older,
was when my brother told me he
found red candles and black robes
in the clay bank
and that the white witch was
a myth they created to keep me safe
because they were afraid of me
venturing into the forest alone.
The trauma
of Clifford Olsons'
victims remains
in that clay,
with or without the
White Witch.
my step-father, whisky rubs,
star-treck and then bath-time.
the smell of ferns, and moss, and the damp
cold,
waiting outside,
--always outside.
locked in freedom.
the mission that the older children called
'WAR'
My oldest stepbrother re-enacted
WWII and us young ones
hid in trenches that they dug out
under rotten logs.
I was terrified to crawl under the ground
but they convinced me that it would be safer.
'bombs were exploding everywhere!!'
and, so of course ,we had to hide in the pit
under the rotting log.
the mission
always, to get back inside the house
to understand the screaming.
the smashing sounds
and then to deliberate...
should we relinquish,
give ourselves up?
to social workers...
no.
to wait...to listen...to fear...
the broken glass on the window pane.
tracing the double lining and the insects stuck between,
mainly spiders.
stuck in an unknown web,
drowned by rainwater.
I spent hours looking at this broken window...
wondering about the insects that died there...
forgetting how it got broken.
but I remember the words, the words, the words
words:
"DO IT AGAIN"
..."DO IT AGAIN, IT"S NOT GOOD ENOUGH
....DO IT AGAIN"
1, 2, 3, 4 ,5 , 6.....7, 8, 9 10...
that's when I started counting tires on the playground
and
when my mom asked why I was silent...
I didn't respond.
I just started counting.
these are memories to forget.
