Poems about abuse
Dad's Property
Me, his property
to do with as he wishes;
mind and body shackled
by his penis.
Feeling and thought stifled
by his wrath.
No space to hide,
no room for breath.
Death swiped him early,
providence seemed good.
Released from bondage,
by an open door I stood,
unaware his talons would grab
from six feet below.
Climbing toward health
I’m snared by Hell’s claws.
While mirrors blazed fear
I hid from tyranny
then trampled through memory,
wearing a mask of normalcy.
Father still holds the deed
to much of me.
Two years after Father’s release from Mauthausen
Anne and I are born in the USA,
the first and last of a generation.
Thirty minutes after Anne’s debut
doctors drag me into the klieg lights.
Hearing of our double birth,
Father weeps. I am the second,
the extra he never forgives.
Swaddled in Mother’s arms, Anne goes home,
I stay under incubator lights.
The one who swam with me
for three seasons
is held by our big sister.
Before pumpkins are carved,
Uncle Robert picks me up,
brings the stranger to that family of four.
Father, whose rage sputtered before he spent
three months next to crematorium chimneys,
does the goose-step into this little girl.
He does not brand me with numbers
but indelibly marks me different.
This fallen female weeps
from September to September
to September
Thoughts Are Quickly Snagged
My gaze goes past
crystal pitcher stuffed
with pink and mauve, mums, roses,
and green heart-shaped leaves,
to the snow-skimmed deck,
benches, lawn
and sparkling lake
beyond my slider doors,
to the hill across the way,
also skimmed with snow,
and the haze
of almost naked branches,
bud-filled, promising
early bloom after
the warmest winter.
Even daff and tulip stems
have pushed themselves
up through the snow.
Yesterday, a group of grazing deer
darkened the whitened land.
On my fireplace hearth,
a cascade of forsythia,
that has yellowed all of February.
My second bouquet
challenging the season,
as I try to defy winter.
Snow banks
striped by tree-shadows,
gray on white,
enhanced by sun-glare—
December’s birth
carpeted New England white,
traffic sullied it, white fell anew,
soon got sooted and sanded.
Yesterday,
a week into February,
still no sepia grasses peeked through,
birds could find no worms,
but ice fishermen feasted.
Color anomaly—
a cardinal flits by.
38 degrees, the patter of dripping snow
inspires the golden hue
glazing forsythia branches.
Inside, the thermostat set
to prevent asset depletion,
I wear two sweaters
and a fleece jacket,
but I’ve clipped several stems
to yellow-up
Valentine’s Day.
An Accounting on Turning Away by Jane Berger Herschlag
Nothing is learned by turning away—
I stare hard at
the woman in the mirror and tell her,
You don’t understand the impact
of not embracing
often.
Much is lost by turning away—
I look again into the mirror,
Think of all that you have
lost by your reticence, your unwillingness
to let the cat, the wolf, and the lamb
leap out of your pen.
So much is saved by turning away
I think, holding in my extremes—
But what has accrued
when you refused the roller coaster,
left it to others to ride
shrieking and giggling?
If I could route out my child years
I could love with abandon;
instead, I remain earthbound,
but with a loyal partner who often
lifts me a bit into the air.
With the wisdom of the unconscious,
at nineteen my priorities were suddenly met.
Attending Herb’s school of love
I learned many of the songs of trees and flowers.
Sometimes I depart from logic
to let my mind fly into
the stratosphere of poetry.
After taking into account
all the pluses and minuses—
not turning away
builds assets.