HerStory
I can’t remember
the first time
I met my sister.
All I know was
she was
older than me
& I thought
that she was cute.
She wore
black-rimmed
glasses that
pinched
the end
of her nose.
She had
two
ponytails
that
constantly
came undone
(I can not
remember
my mother ever
doing her hair).
My
sister and I
spent
a lot
of time
together
in a stale,
dark bedroom
we shared
with our brother.
We
weren’t
really encouraged
to
have
friends
or
to go out.
Our dark,
airless,
messy
chaotic room
full of
hand-me
-downs
and broken
toys
became
an island,
sitting
in the wake
of a possible
tsunami.
My mother
was
a
defective shelter
that
always
faltered
when you needed
it most.
She
buckled
whenever
the wave
crashed
in on our backs,
thick leather with metal
that left
marks
on the skin
but
worst of all,
confusion
in
our souls.
Copenhagen, 2006
Comments
This just seized me by the heart... With my carefully cultivated stoicism, I find myself wanting to avoid commenting on anything but the obvious, which is how skilfully you have crafted this poem and captured this slice of y/our experience of childhood. I am reluctant to poke my head too far into the "airless, messy, chaotic room" and feel again the illusion of sanctuary, but your poem makes me turn and turn and return again to when I was first made to experience the vulnerability of children and adults alike, even when the latter seemed to wield all the power. Thank you for speaking the truth, especially on behalf of those who will not.
Check out Jessica's post at Alien in the Caribbean and this post at Slacker's Chronicles which I thoroughly enjoyed and which reminded me of your quest.
Blessings always.