I was distressed to read the following message in the comments for yesterday's prompt this morning:

Doubt I can finish the month...spent the last 24+ hours in ICU after my husband suffered an accident. Had to be airlifted to a city 3 hours away (40 min. by air) Will get back and follow the rest of you once I am able to be home for a while. It has been a great month celebrating poetry.

 

Emily Blakely |ecblakelyAT NOSPAMmsn dot com

 

Please send some goodwill Emily's way; as you can probably tell from her comment, her husband's accident sounds very serious.

 

*****

 

Maybe Emily's horrible situation will put things into perspective for today's challenge, which may very well be the hardest poem of the entire month for many. Today's prompt is to write a sestina. (If you need a subject, you can write about catastrophe or loss or hope--to mirror the news above.)

 

So, what is a sestina? For those who have a few minutes to spare, please go to the following link: http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/Sestina6x6339+Thats+Math.aspx. Once there, you can read up about what a sestina is and can be.

 

For those in a hurry, here's the basics on the sestina:

 

* It's a poem consisting of 7 stanzas.

* The first 6 stanzas have 6 lines; the final stanza has 3 lines.

* There are only 6 end words to each line throughout the 39-line poem.

* They rotate in the following pattern:

1-End Word 1

2-End Word 2

3-End Word 3

4-End Word 4

5-End Word 5

6-End Word 6

 

7-End Word 6

8-End Word 1

9-End Word 5

10-End Word 2

11-End Word 4

12-End Word 3

 

13-End Word 3

14-End Word 6

15-End Word 4

16-End Word 1

17-End Word 2

18-End Word 5

 

19-End Word 5

20-End Word 3

21-End Word 2

22-End Word 6

23-End Word 1

24-End Word 4

 

25-End Word 4

26-End Word 5

27-End Word 1

28-End Word 3

29-End Word 6

30-End Word 2

 

31-End Word 2

32-End Word 4

33-End Word 6

34-End Word 5

35-End Word 3

36-End Word 1

 

37-End Words 1 and 2

38-End Words 3 and 4

39-End Words 5 and 6

Usually, the best strategy is to pick out 6 words you think you can have fun with and that are probably somewhat flexible in how you can use them (this includes modifying a word here and there--like changing "cold" to "clod" to fit your purposes). Maybe throw in a word that is a little unique--if you really want to challenge yourself. And remember to have fun.

 

Here's my sestina for the day:

 

"On the fly"

I am a big fan of eating Lemonheads,

little yellow spheres tasting like a kiss

on a summer day while sitting on a bench

and enjoying the words of some expert

on how to be true and love me tender,

maybe while watching the birds fly

 

overhead and swatting away a fly

or two. That is, I think Lemonheads

are worth more than they're tendered

in convenience stores. How do you kiss
and put a price on it? I'm no expert,

but I'm also not some dime-store bench

 

warming philosopher. I can bench

my weight in mistakes and open flies,

because I've always been one to expect

the need for a Plan B. That is, Appleheads

taste even better and led to my first kiss

in a long time--and at a very tender

 

moment. Maybe I'm just too tender-

minded. Maybe I should sit on the bench

of whatever court decides good kissing

practices. Maybe I should check my fly

before starting any hot talk on Lemonheads.

Maybe I should leave it to the experts.

 

After all, they are supposedly the experts

for a reason, right? I wonder if they tender

a smooch for the same price as Lemonheads.

I wonder if they set some kissing bench-

mark and expect us all to hit it on the fly,

just something we do without thinking: A kiss

 

on the cheek counting as much as a kiss

with tongues is blaspheme, whether experts

declare or not. One needs wings to fly

or we'd all slingshot crazy and turn into tinder--

a bright flaming star, a burning bench

where once I enjoyed eating my Lemonheads.

 

And the Lemonheads will always lead to kisses

on hot benches with or without the experts

to approve the tender moment of wanting to fly.

With Day 13's poems, I got the best of both worlds: poetry and music. I asked you to write a poem that's inspired by a song or lyrics from a song. Most of the music that inspired you was already known by me, so I found myself often humming the songs as I read your poems. Lots of fun, for sure.

Anyway, have fun reading (and humming) the highlights.

*****

 

Southern Paradise

 

Inspired by Song in C by Cary Hudson

 

“…takes a swig of whiskey

And decides

He says boys

This here’s parardise”

 

 

The smell of catfish frying in the hot oil

Hushpuppies bubbling up to the top

Fills the night air with a heavenly aroma

Making the men hungry.

The beers iced down

Getting colder and colder,

Better and better

Making everybody thirsty.

Jimmy Ray picks up his guitar

Plays a song about his dog.

Some of the men want to tear up

But don’t.

They shake their head instead

Grab one of those cold beers,

Some a nip of whiskey.

Because most of them knew that dog.

Songs like that cut straight to the matter,

No doubt about it.

Jimmy Ray picks up the pace a bit,

Plays a song about his truck, the girl that left him.

The men really like that one.

She was such a bitch.

 

The night goes on

Them sitting around the fire

Cooking up good food

Playing songs about life

Enjoying their southern paradise.

 

 

patti williams |pwilliamswriterAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

Going Home

 

Inspired by "Blue Bayou"

(Roy Orbison & Linda Ronstadt)

 

The ancient Cyprus stand patiently.

Their branches, gnarled with age,

draped in tattered gray shawls of moss.

Gators float lazily in the sluggish pools,

waiting for dinner to swim by.

Catfish snuggle into the muddy creek bottom,napping in the heat of the day.

Here and there a sunbeam slips through the dark green canopy.

The small shack is dark..listing slightly on it's wobbly stilts.

It is afternoon on the Bayou.

Quiet, sleepy, waiting...for me to come home.

 

 

Glenda Widger

 

*****

 

Luckiest

 

“I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong, that I know I am… the luckiest.” –Ben Folds

 

I feel like I'm apologizing more and more

these days for the past I treasure, but,

I'm sorry that I defaced public property

to propose. I'm sorry I thought the best

way to explain how you've affected me

was to write a poem about erosion (you).

I know it may not've been the most tactful

approach to a proposal, calling you erosion

then graffiti-ing up Balboa Park that Thursday

when Nepalese police shot labor strikers

entering Katmandu, and the Solomon islands

rioted deep into the night, but you said yes.

The only explanation for the Nepalese

and the small island's full-scale riots I can figure

is that we offset the global equilibrium, somehow,

with the weight of exuberancy I carried

as we walked to the Prado, engaged.

We left the world slightly off-balance.

And I couldn't help but feel a little jealous,

when Ben Folds claimed to be the luckiest,

when the backyard was dimmed to table-candle

light, and we swayed to the music, half-dancing

and half just feeling the world rushing us toward

tomorrow, and the next day and the next day,

and I swear, it'll take an icepick lobotomy to remove

that moment from the tight clutches of my brain.

So don't even think about it, Ben,

that song belongs to me now.

 

 

Zebulon Huset |zebulonhusetAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

3 AM

 

"It was 3 AM when I heard the sound"

Jonathan Coulton-"The Big Boom"

 

By the time we heard the sound

it was already too late.

We knew that more were bound

to suffer Michigan's fate.

In the mindless din of screams

and stray car alarm peal

we watched as the stuff of dreams

brought a nightmarish ordeal.

The rising of the sun

just made the sight more appauling

as we heard that one by one

all of the cities were falling.

Now forced to move by night,

just one thing is understood.

We've all given up the fight,

hope is now gone for good.

 

 

John H Maloney |callentureAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

“Peace Train”

 

(“Now I’ve been smiling lately, thinking about the good things to come; And I believe it could be, something good has begun.” Cat Stevens)

 

Dad and I sang it in the car,

on the way to school,

every morning.

And, as a child,

it sure was easy to believe.

(Of course,

it’s easy to smile when

riding bikes,

drinking from honeysuckles,

and singing with a cool dad is your life.)

 

Life gets older,

things get colder.

and bills,

and arguments,

and “what are we going to do?”s take over.

 

And yet, in my mind,

I can hear our voices.

 

They sing to me as a reminder

that life is oh so good.

 

Especially when you still have a father,

and three daughters,

who you sing Cat Stevens with.

 

 

Cheryl Wray |cherylwritAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

The following prose poem was inspired by The Birds' Turn Turn Turn which was, in turn, inspired by a passage in Ecclesiastes. I am dedicating this to my mother who broke her Bird's lp accidentally and who has not forgotten the lyrics.

 

To Everything There Is

 

This is the season of forgetting. You send me emails with details that cannot align themselves with the stars of our past; the experiences you have had that cannot have ever been. Later when I enter your room you look blinking, pulling a memory that will tell you I am your daughter. I read to you from books until you fall asleep and your lids flutter. Do your memories come out to play in your dreams or are your dreams as confused as you are when you lean over my shoulder to try to discern the words you yourself taught me to read when I was the child, confused and grasping to find meaning in the glyphs, trying to remember the sounds of letters. When I visit and your face shows you know me, I forget not to cry and want to say a child being held instead of letting you go ever.

 

 

satia |satia62AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

LOVE SONG ON THE INNER LOOP

 

“This could be the end of everything…”

--Keane, “Somewhere Only We Know”

 

Wipers smear, taillights flicker red,

then fade; the world a greasy rainbow residue.

 

She sips tepid coffee as the radio

drones its headlines into tinny white noise -

 

Gunman opens fire, Marines press to remove Iraqi

forces, Turks angry over House genocide vote –

 

then segues into scratchy guitar wails

of unrequited love that curls

 

through a grey crush of monotony.

The familiar yearning flames from her gut

 

to her chest, catching her mid-sob. The sky opens;

God slices through the lifting fog

 

in brilliant gilded diagonals; for a perfect instant,

the City’s towers puncture the horizon,

 

shimmer into opalescent minarets, the receding cloudbank

transmutes into snow-capped pinnacles.

 

She smiles through her sip, and her heart

wings East, over the ocean to another continent.

 

To him.

 

 

Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

(Inspired in part by Hurt - Johnny Cash version)

 

Feel

 

I sit alone, always alone, speaking to no one,

talking to myself. I cut my skin, trying to feel

something, anything. Even pain is better than

this absolute nothing. Can you hear my cry for

 

help? You see the marks on my arm. “Why did

you do that?” You ask. “I don’t know.” My reply

is quiet. I wait for the yelling. “Shouldn’t do that.

It’s stupid.” You turn back to your coffee, fixing

 

your makeup. I watch you. I want to be you, cold,

aloof. I return to my room, listen to the music of

your youth. Old records that try to speak to me. I

cut my skin, and wonder if these records made you

 

feel.

 

 

Susan M. Bell |maylandwritersAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

When I’m 64

 

I must remember to remind

my children not to let me

wear white anklets and plastic shoes

not to mention a flowered muu-muu

even when no one is at home.

 

 

Renee Goularte |share2learnAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

 

*****

 

Winning Glory

 

"Glory days well they'll pass you by

glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye"

Bruce Springsteen

 

Basketball

physical game, mind game, winning game,

not just a game,

an all consuming struggle to the pinnacle of success.

Play the game on and off the court.

Be on top of your game

front the post, box out, take a charge,

sprint to the help, rebound,

stand alone on the foul line

she shoots, she scores.

The roar of the crowd,

adrenaline pumping,

fast break, take it to the hoop.

The buzzer sounds

game over,

defying gravity

the team remains unbeaten.

Cameras flash

team pictures,

smiles through tears,

the Lady Spartans pose

arms linked,

state champion medals around their necks,

standing for a moment in the glory days.

 

 

LBC |lcaramanAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com

 

*****

 

The Highway is a Clogged Artery Through the Heart of it All

 

"And you wake up

to the sound of a horn

that reminds you

that you're not dead"

 

-- "Traffic" - Chad VanGaalen

 

I am well-travelled

but only between

the same

two cities; I am

a master

of highway

hypnosis

 

My car

radio has been

asleep for two

years, I have too

much time

to think about

how many

people are passing

by with bodies

in the trunk

 

In Ohio

it is orange

barrel season: every

inch of us

is under

construction

with broken

roads

and hearts

 

In the fast

and slow

and stop

and go

again

we are large

eyesores

running quickly

out of gasoline

 

And even

in the right

direction

I am headed

the wrong way

 

 

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

So let go, jump in,

what you waiting for?

It’s all right

cause there’s beauty in the breakdown-

It’s so amazing here

 

Let Go by Frou Frou

 

Let go

 

I want to turn the left side on my brain off-

unclasp the heavy buckle

that binds my heart closed,

swing doors and windows wide

to sun and breeze,

rush of love in and out;

I want to live at the centre

and breathe everything.

 

 

Jacquie Wareham |wareham dot jacquieAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

"Go ahead with your own life leave me alone"

(Billy Joel--My Life)

 

It wasn't my first affair, but it was my first divorce.

Fall of 1978.

I was driving down the highway from my disastrous job

With Billy Joel filling my head

When that old American Motors Eagle caught fire.

I grabbed a blanket from the backseat

(you can imagine why that was there),

jumped out of the car and opened the hood.

Flames were all over the engine.

I just started beating them with the blanket yelling

"I don't care what you say anymore this is my life!"

The flames died.

I started the car and drove on home

for the last time.

The flames were dead.

 

 

Nathan Everett |nwesignaturesAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

Well, we're working our way closer to the end. After we finish today's prompt, only three days will separate us from finishing this April PAD Challenge. On May 1, I plan to give a recap of the month and some details of how we can keep this community going beyond April. Something to keep an eye on.

Today's prompt is to write a poem that is only one-half of a two-person conversation, or what I like to call the "one side of a phone line" poem. I'm not even sure how well this is going to work out, but every once in a while, it's good to stretch ourselves and experiment a little.

While you could just get to typing one side of a conversation, it might be a good idea to write down some dialogue and then, cut out the person who is the least interesting. Anyway, as with all the prompts, be sure to have fun with this one.

Here's my poem for the day:

"Really?!?"

Hello?
Oh. It's you.
I didn't mean.
Whatever. Why did you call anyway?
Really?!?
He's a fool. Doesn't he--
Well, yeah!
Obviously.
He doesn't ever listen, and he's going to learn--
Really?
That's so--
I don't understand.
Oh. Well, yeah. If that's the case, then--
Better to just leave him on the side of the road.
Sometimes, you just gotta get tough.
No, really.
Next time he--
Well, next time he--
Okay. Call me back later then. I've got a lot more to say on him.
Yeah, bye.

 

Today's prompt is to write a poem with the title of "I'm so over (_____)."  You get to choose what you're "so over" with, and write a poem about it.  I'll be looking forward to reading these. 

Here's my poem for the day:

"I'm so over commuting to work."

In getting up at 5:30 in the morning
to beat rush hour traffic. $3.59
for a gallon of gasoline is highway
robbery. For real. As in, I'm driving
on the highway, and my name is Robert.

A few times this month, I've felt like the forces working around my daily life are keeping track of my prompts (most of which I had set in stone before April started). For instance, I wasn't able to get Day 13's highlights up this morning (look for them on Monday), because my Clark Kent persona as a mild-mannered editor of Writer's Market had some indexes to go over late last night. Sometimes work just gets in the way of having fun and saving the world, I guess.

Anyway, the reason that is relevant to today's prompt is that we need to write an occupational poem today. You can write about your own occupation or that of another. Had a favorite job from the past? A least favorite job? A funny story from a job? Consider these questions before tackling your poem today.

Personally, I've held many jobs over the years, including baby-sitter, paperboy, bus boy, dishwasher, art gallery attendant, youth counselor for the City of Moraine, cashier, ice cream scooper, canvasser for a windows & siding company, night time stocker at a department store, and--being entrepreneurially inclined--I've had several odd jobs through the years as well. But I ultimately decided to write today's poem based off my experience working at a car factory making struts one summer.

Here it goes:

"Waking up in the evening"

They brush their teeth and dress
before flocking to the parking lot
protected by barbed wire fencing
and a wide open gate. One by one,
they swipe their cards and move
though the turnstile, cross train
tracks and plug their ears against
the sound of metal on metal,
a cocoon to keep them safe from
the harsh realities of the situation:
While others sleep, they labor
over machines in a repetitive
thrum of this piece here affixed
to that piece there and move
it on to the next station and
back to this piece here affixed
to that piece there until a machine
breaks and throws off the units
for the day. Then, the foremen
shuffle around and fuss at them
to remind them they're no better
than a machine. They defiantly
put up with the abuse until
it's time to go home, driving
the against the traffic caused
by the others, the people
who sleep while they work.
When they get home, they
take showers and have trouble
getting themselves to sleep.

You were asked to write an apology poem on Day 12, but I want to start off by saying, "Thank you," for all the great poetry written on this day. Good poems are usually marked by a great degree of honesty (even when making things up) and fearlessness on the part of the poet. These poems were very truthful and close to the bone. For instance, I didn't realize so many women have thoughts of punching people--the things poetry teaches us. But seriously, there were some funny poems in the bunch, but also some that were truly heartbreaking. Thank you for writing them.

I also want to thank Amy Cornell for sharing this prompt with her women's writing circle at the Monroe County Corrections Center in Bloomington, Indiana.

Here are the day 12 highlights.

*****

#12

 

I atone…

I admit…

I regret…

I repent…

I confess…

I am sorry…

I am guilty…

I apologize…

I didn’t mean…

I am ashamed…

 

…it’s a beginning.

Are you listening?

Never mind. I need

to say it

 

even if you don’t need to hear it.

 

 

Cara Alson |csalsonAT NOSPAMearthlink dot net

 

*****

 

Inconsiderate Acts

 

I'm sorry snail, I didn't see you sliding across the sidewalk like a wad of butter on a slowly warming skillet. I'm sorry mailbox lock, for missing with my key and scratching your chrome. It's such a small key. I'm sorry mail key, for calling you small. You aren't small, you're compact. That makes you more efficient. I'm sorry house key, I understand the mailbox lock's smaller than door lock, and that he'd break off his teeth trying to muster the strength to move that heavy, oh, right, heavy and stiff deadbolt. (Yes, mail-key, I know that he's full of himself, I'm sorry for placating him, but if he decides to run off I have to call a locksmith and they don't accept apologize. The last one I called wouldn't even take a check.) So, so sorry, morning, for stepping on your sidewalks, I'll try to be more considerate in the future.

 

 

Zebulon Huset |zebulonhusetAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Sweet Nothing

 

I'm sorry you feel that way

was what you said

then later claimed that

as a true apology

 

As you slept

I wrote the note

and taped it to the

bathroom mirror

 

Sorry I didn't wake you

to say good-bye

 

 

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

I'm sorry I went back into the bar

after chatting over the bed of my

truck for 20 minutes. We went back

in and drank a bit more, then ended

up back at my place...

 

He never told me about you -- the

current wife, just spoke about

the bitch ex-wife, assuming I knew

about you. When I came onto the

scene, after you left,

 

after you were too pregnant to

train any longer. If I had known

about you, it would never have

happened, I never would have

been so sick at heart

 

at what I'd inadvertently done,

all unknowing. I would never

have impulsively left town to

visit my alma mater, my ex-room

mate and his new digs

 

and I would have never met the

man who would become my husband

that second time. I wouldn't

have been dive bombed by that

wasp or gone to the

 

emergency room and been given

prescription Benedryl, which

loosened my tongue enough to

disarm his sense of humor. So

I'm sorry you

 

still don't know. I'm sorry about

the whole screwed up situation. I'm

sorry it happened with your husband.

But I'm not sorry it ended up

with mine.

 

 

A.C. Leming |fackorfAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Letter of Apology

 

Dear John (or rather Robert),

I readily confess

That I partake of your challenge

But fail to pass the test.

I could blame it on my two jobs

Or my need for family time,

I could say my dog ate my homework.

Would that excuse work online?

I could plead I missed three days

'Cause I was subject to the flu,

I could argue I'm not a poet,

I'm just trying something new.

I could say that I am sorry,

I could post it on my shelf,

For it's not you I have let down...

I apologize to myself.

 

 

Linda Hofke |LNSHOFKEAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Sorry

 

I hope the consequences will be slight.

Sorry for not posting on here last night.

I was out to last call -

it was Friday and all,

so if I penned a poem, it'd be shite.

 

 

Callan Bignoli-Zale |shehadausernameAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Sister

 

She’s still there, whether

I talk to her or not.

Whether I pick up the phone

and try to cross the bridge

that’s been bombed.

It wasn’t us—

we both agree—

but still, the bridge is gone

and I haven’t rebuilt it

with telephone wire.

 

 

Kimberlee Thompson |kthompsonAT NOSPAMpatmedia dot net

 

*****

 

Yellow

 

Sepia stains this house -

and you - with time passed,

time mourned, choices made

 

or not. Of fingers

jaundiced and shrunken,

swirling amber nectar,

 

ice clacking to moments

metered by the hissing

thump, thump, thump of air

 

coursing via canal,

to make red what’s blue

in you, now yellowed,

 

smoky-scented, canyon-

carved, starving for space

enough to utter

 

“I’m sorry.” But the tip

just flares, then fades. You

gasp, and all goes black.

 

 

Linda |drwasyAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

Why I’m late

 

I left in plenty of time but

There was a train,

I had a flat tire,

My mom/sister/doctor called,

I was detoured,

I forgot my purse,

There was an accident,

The dog ate my homework,

(Sorry, wrong excuse list),

I would have called but

My cell phone battery

Was dead…

Oh heck, I just didn’t leave

Early enough. I’m sorry.

 

 

Lyn Sedwick |LASMD925AT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

The Lackluster Apology

 

I'm sorry that I have the energy

To smile and rub your shoulders

I'm sorry that I enjoyed my day

That I delight in the new flowers

The silly thing our son said

The bliss of going for a walk with a friend

That I have the time to make your life simple

And full of love and peace

That I am not miserable and having crazy days

Like you

That I'm clearly not as important as someone

Who has impossibly difficult days

And mountains of pressure and frustration

Over and over and over again

But mostly I'm sorry that you don't

Remember

How it was when I was stressed, fried

And miserable too

And the tension between the two of us

Just about broke us in two

And when I told you to stop buying things

That you ignored me and said "it's a homerun."

And now it's a headache

And that you still don't see it

But I'm not sorry that you're a dreamer

A risk taker, and an artist and still

The handsomest man I know

 

 

SaraV |slvinasAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

You're sorry?

 

You said you were sorry

For ending it all

On Valentine’s Day.

Well, just why

Were you sorry?

 

For keeping me waiting

In a car with no heat

While the petals

On the roses I’d

Brought for you froze?

 

For leaving out the

Notebooks filled

With love letters

I thought were for me

Until I read a little deeper?

 

For not having the guts

To look me in the eye

And say, “It’s Over.”

Instead, calling collect.

(Of course I accepted the charges.)

 

Or simply for the

Shoddy cliché of it all.

Dumped on Valentine’s Day.

Now there’s a rejection

That keeps on giving.

 

 

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

I wasn’t there

 

but I was there…

trapped in the body

of an eight-year-old child,

my short fingers capable

of sending my toys

to imaginary graves,

but not stopping

the tears

from streaming

down my mother’s face,

not stopping the faceless

fist from tangling

in her long blonde curls

and dragging her from my room

and down the hall.

 

I can still hear her screaming.

 

I can still hear the voice

of the monster

calling her bitch,

telling her he is going to

get out his knife,

he is going to

cut the baby

out of her guts,

telling her she will never

leave him again.

I can still hear the thud

of his fist in the wall

and the struggle

as she fights her way

back out of the darkness.

 

Moonlight falling in

through the rectangular windows

of this small trailer

in the Kentucky woods,

my sister and I

curled under the blankets

of our separate bunks

and held our breath,

our immature minds

incapable of knowing

that we could be hearing

the sounds of

our mother about to die.

 

But the light came on,

and with a flurry of shouts

and sobs we were in the truck

and gone,

leaving the demon

alone to destroy

everything that could be broken.

 

I was too young.

I couldn’t say

don’t go back,

I didn’t know

my sister’s innocence

was under attack,

I didn’t know

the words “abuse”, “sexual”,

or “victim”,

but I felt

deep down

a sense of wrong.

 

I’ll never understand

why she did it,

believed his apologies and lies,

left me for a year

to live with my grandparents,

while they moved back

into a different trailer

in a different town,

why he was allowed

to hold my baby brother

in his tainted hands.

I wasn’t there

but I was.

&n