ChristinaParker.htm

I go back

June 1974, my mother hiding

gap teeth behind pursed lips,

posing there on the carport.

I am a thought she holds

close. . . her girl. . . still

unborn. Her mind plays

promises:

she won't be a caretaker,

cook for siblings, or conspire

when father can't make it home

from the bar, she won't be like me.

I go back, and I tell her.

I shout, mother, let me live

every meal you had to cook.

Let me feel the abuse you endured.

Tell me why you grew up too fast.

I will become a woman heavy

with memory. Your family will

begin to know your worth

when I speak your life.

On the Tilt-A-Whirl

Before, carnival man walked

the metal planks between each car,

a downward lilt of his hand checked

the safety bar snug across my lap.

His fingers lingered, so close

to that other red mound.

Those lips rubbed worn leather,

shifted by the whim of his hand

on the lever. Each time round

the painted clown blinked

a knowing gaze. Scream if you want more.

A picture I cannot paint

Mom told me in the kitchen, opened

her shirt to purple welts.

It has not spread to the lymph nodes.

It is the best case.

I could only hug her,

say I'm sorry, though I felt

anger: how could she keep

it these two months?

Why won't she let me

help her?

But I cannot say

my want. Not then, when I let

her tell me it will be okay.

Not now, as I drive to work,

in a different town

in another state.

Hungry

Nanny eats week-old cantaloupe

from Spring Street Market, gazes

out her kitchen bay window,

Asks Do you remember when

your brother ran from your daddy.

I say nothing, afraid words will end the story.

Well no, I guess you don't cause you

weren't born. They were getting in the car

to come here. Your daddy chased your brother

all over that neighborhood and liked

to never caught him.

I asked about a bruise he had when they got
here.

He said daddy'd hit him.

I guess he's never laid a hand on you.

Nanny pushes the bowl of cantaloupe across the
table.

Might as well eat some, she says, I had to cut it
up

before it got to stinking.

Those Baptist Sundays

Your knee grazes mine during the

God-knows-your-every-thought sermon.

Offering plate time, your fingers brush

the palm of my hand.

At benediction, desire whispers louder

than hunger, and we hurry to the leather

seats of your '61 Dodge Intrepid.

You are a lost soul wandering my body,

your hands stake out the indentation between

my breasts, the slight dent at the small

of my back, finally settle for the folds

of my stomach where your flesh

Rubs back and forth.

This way, you can look into my eyes,

though you do not see me, but beyond,

to the Rapture perhaps.

At its greatest height,

the gate is narrow, so I rise to enter,

my name on your lips the sacred calling.