Poems
Playing
A Cinquain
This is the way...
Those Brown Bottles
A Letter
The Beginning
Playing
The tears flow with pain and hurt.
The blood feels warm as it
flows down my neck.
She rushes out and says, "Now what?"
I stifle the tears and pain.
I feel at fault and to blame.
What did I do?
I hurt, Ma.
I cry, Ma.
She shoves,
She pushes,
She cleans me up.
Cold water,
white towels,
red blood refusing to stop flowing.
She swears.
At me? I wonder,
I shouldn't have chased the ball.
I shouldn't have played.
Playing is hurtful.
Playing is wrong.
Playing makes her hate me.
He calls my name,
Sharon, Sharon.
A needle and thread appear
and disappear within my vision.
He says, My mother would want
me to be brave.
He's wrong, My mother would want
me to be dead.
S. Roth
A Cinquain
parent
mother, father
striking, kissing, hitting
soft, harsh, angry, lost
enemy
This is the way. . . . . .
This is the way to loneliness.
And
this is the way to learn to be afraid,
and
you hurt inside while you feel the pounding of flesh against flesh.
And
this is the way to stay alive while you lie in the dark
and
try not to vomit from the ugliness of his touch.
And
this is the way to survive
and
never feel the pain of soft baby skin being bruised by an unshaven face.
And
this is the way to never want to know how to love.
and
This is the way to loneliness.
S. Roth
Those Brown Bottles
Those brown bottles were the reason. Those brown bottles,
stacked between the refrigerator and the kitchen wall spoke to
me of pain, hurt, and caring.
I dreaded those evenings when I watched those brown bottles
pile higher and higher, knowing and yet not knowing, when it
would happen. Like a volcano, Dad would erupt. He would
reach out grabbing hair, spitting in faces, and striking bodies
with his large strong fists.
I was thankful for those evenings when only one or two brown
bottles stood alone in that space beside the refrigerator. Like a
tired, old alley cat, Dad would sit in his large chair, watching
television with his eyes closed, and asking for a kiss on his soft
and furrowed forehead at bedtime.
Those brown bottles were the reason. Those brown bottles
stacked between the refrigerator and kitchen wall. Those brown
bottles were filled with the power of love and hate, pain and
softness, life and death.
S. Roth
A Letter
Dear Mom,
Mom, remember me?
I wonder if you do.
Let me jog your memory.
I'm the youngest girl,
the one you called your "Irish beauty",
the one with the long hair and blue eyes,
the one you perhaps hoped too hard for.
Mom, remember me? .
I wonder if you do.
Let me jog your thoughts.
I'm the quiet one,
the obedient one,
the one you could always count on,
the smart one,
the one who was always there,
the one you knew would make it.
Mom, remember me?
I wonder if you do.
Let me jog your feelings.
I'm the one who never cried.
the one who always smiled,
the one you were thankful to for silence.
Mom, remember me?
I wonder if you do.
Let me jog your silence.
I'm the one who was violated and all you did was wonder
why I was ill so often,
I'm the one who was beaten and all you did was praise
me for my good grades,
I'm the one who made a deal with you to keep your secrets.
Mom, remember me?
I know that you don't,
because you never knew me,
because it would hurt too much.
Mom, I remember you...
I remember your anger.
I remember your coldness.
I remember that you were never there.
Mom, I remember you...
I remember that it was from you
I learned to be a victim.
Love,
Sharon
S. Roth
What we call the beginning is often
the end,
and to make an end is to
make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.
T.S. Eliot
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