Someone messed with my story when I was still young,
trying to bend it like a bonsai tree
and so I wrapped it in paper and hid it away
in the throat of a bird, clandestinely.
I was obliged to call my assaulter "mother"
and expected to pretend devotion.
Her mask was on her face so long
that her true face had become the illusion.
Grown, I went where the robins gathered
and found the cardinal who carried my loss.
It was in a grave, wrapped with quilts,
but had marked its place with two twigs crossed.
I put it back in my body and felt its ice,
then its beat and its fine red heat.
There is nothing I love more than the thing
I smuggled past the killer-- the best of me.
That is not to say that all survived--
those who say they love are heard as fakes,
assassins or fools; give this hungry woman jewels
and see what a pretty figure my turned back makes.
______________
for Word Garden Word List--Sula
Music: Damien Jurado Orphans in the Key of E
A poem of strength and a miraculous survival - what a gift it is when we have survived - and even more so that we thrive beyond the expectations of those who sought to destroy us
ReplyDelete"There is nothing I love more than the thing I smuggled past the killer - the best of me." Two of the most powerful lines I have ever read. The people who never knew who we are missed a lot. Fantastic writing, Shay.
ReplyDeleteDespite those who mess with our story, we can still survive and even thrive.....and become 'the best of me.' A strong poem!
ReplyDelete“ hid it away / in the throat of a bird” Perfect line. And the digging up the grave and putting the cold body inside, where it comes to life again. So good.
ReplyDeleteThis poem makes me feel angry and sad. A mother being an "assaulter" is such a horrific thing. I'm glad for the triumphant survivor being able to keep "the best of me," though sad for what's been lost. The things we go through change us for sure. My favorite line: "felt its ice, then its beat and its fine red heat." Excellent poem.
ReplyDeleteHere's the valentine I've been waiting for: 'There is nothing I love more than the thing . I smuggled past the killer -- the best of me." Fertile ink in them thar chocolates.
ReplyDeleteThis is so powerful Shay. So many brilliant lines. I feel its anger and its strength. Survival amongst those who we think should love us and are monsters who try to tear us apart isn't easy. This is one of my favorites from you. One I am so jealous I didn't have the talent to write.
ReplyDeleteSo much to love in this lyrically perfect poem, hitting all the right notes in our hearts. That we have to smuggle past masked mothers our true selves is a tragedy as acute as Antigone burying her brothers, for we have to bury ourselves, then to retrieve oursleves, where two crossed twigs mark their place, preserved by love. A spiritual resurrection. What we yearn for, piece by piece.
ReplyDelete