I used to listen to many people talk about violence inflicted on them-voluntarily as a career. I used poetry to write the emotion out when I was overwhelmed-similar to "wash that man out of your hair", but more intense, almost a way of preserving sanity. Writing poetry about a bad relationship seems a great idea. So many songs are about relationships there's bound to be one or two about the end of a bad relationship. Here's a poem I wrote in 1996 to write a bad crisis call out of my head.
Better Than the Legal System
You didn’t think
strength grew from your wife’s
broken neck and stabbed heart.
You smiled
as three women grieved
while her coffin dropped
to its entombment.
You didn’t hear her call the names of
her mother, her daughter, and the woman next door,
yet they responded without the shame
that murderers thrive on behind closed doors.
They prayed for her soul to rise;
a signal; a band-aid for unfulfilled expectations.
They burned her wedding gown
and wished time traveled backwards.
Beyond the conscious
what you could see
their hands bonded in an energy
that left these women’s bodies searching.
A week after your deed
you visited the dead.
A gravestone at her head.
Three sets of hands waited at her feet.
A fog covered you in a quick embrace.
The fog as thick as dried blood.
The shadows of boneless fingers alarmed you,
but no one phoned for your rescue.
What surprised you most
were the hands that held you tight.
The hands of women you thought were kind,
but when is kindness blind?
And you said,
"It was my father."
And they said,
"You are not your father."
And you said,
"It was my mother."
And they said,
"You are not your mother."
And you said,
"It was my son."
And they said,
"Your son wasn’t there. He died in utero the third time you beat her."
When they released their grip they promised,
"You will look behind.
you will want someone to understand
The fear of censure of predatory hands."
Only those who died at the hands of lovers
watched as you were condemned.
No human being could save you then.
After all, widower, this was not revenge.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Comments
Pull the plug! Mercy kill! Kavorkian!
Never give up on love.
It just takes time and determination.
Better Than the Legal System
You didn’t think
strength grew from your wife’s
broken neck and stabbed heart.
You smiled
as three women grieved
while her coffin dropped
to its entombment.
You didn’t hear her call the names of
her mother, her daughter, and the woman next door,
yet they responded without the shame
that murderers thrive on behind closed doors.
They prayed for her soul to rise;
a signal; a band-aid for unfulfilled expectations.
They burned her wedding gown
and wished time traveled backwards.
Beyond the conscious
what you could see
their hands bonded in an energy
that left these women’s bodies searching.
A week after your deed
you visited the dead.
A gravestone at her head.
Three sets of hands waited at her feet.
A fog covered you in a quick embrace.
The fog as thick as dried blood.
The shadows of boneless fingers alarmed you,
but no one phoned for your rescue.
What surprised you most
were the hands that held you tight.
The hands of women you thought were kind,
but when is kindness blind?
And you said,
"It was my father."
And they said,
"You are not your father."
And you said,
"It was my mother."
And they said,
"You are not your mother."
And you said,
"It was my son."
And they said,
"Your son wasn’t there. He died in utero the third time you beat her."
When they released their grip they promised,
"You will look behind.
you will want someone to understand
The fear of censure of predatory hands."
Only those who died at the hands of lovers
watched as you were condemned.
No human being could save you then.
After all, widower, this was not revenge.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird