La grande place des fleurs

The left cheekbone appears to have caved in plum, like the juicy fruit   mocca, brown, like the coffee is how I hear the young, blond officer describe the welt beneath my eye as if I am not even here and I am not here He hesitates to gaze into my heart it is dark in there everything has been pushed deep, deep down into the black it would now require a lot of trudging unaided into miserable, lonely, unchartered territory to discover the monster who crawled inside and looked around who made his own place by burning away my sanity Abused he says under his breath as if he knows everything instinct kicks in I am a mother He is frightened I long to cradle his face against my breast to protect him He is too young to see this All of a sudden I am speaking to my unborn son who died, miscarried after I was pushed and tumbled down the steep tenement stairs Benjamin James I named my baby boy alone as the devil himself waited in the corridor, flirting with an intern, his cigarette dangling from his bottom lip I have pleaded, sobbing, to some invisible god for mercy, relief, for death to which I have received no response Mrs. Whitby, says the officer-boy we can get you help we can put the bastard behind bars for a very long time if only you will let us Mrs. Whitby... I stare at this boy He is my son, I am his mother He makes it sound so easy There is nothing he can do Battered I have been forgotten There is no god to care i don't care there is no expression... I tell him  that I wish i was nine years old again He asks if this is because I was happy when I was nine I stare vacantly and ignore this I don't remember bruises before I was nine I don't remember a man I don't remember when the devil took away my soul But I don't tell him this I think of the church choir instead and I tell him that that was when I heard angels sing Written March 11th, 1999 © on Nov 12 2001 12:46 PM PST   0 • 10