Mother

HANDS

 
 
 
 
 
 Hands 
In these hands
a journey be
legend of the person
who used to be
 
calloused palms
scarred knuckles
crooked fingers
 
hands
that should
not
be
 
hands that scream
another truth
different reality
 
hands that
drive me
down the trai,
 
you hobble
walked
skipped
toddled
 
to the woman
whose hands
these be
 
hands that
carried
me
 
once
shrugged off
 angrily
now
I treasure
 for
now
I SEE
******
 
 
 
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“Please daddy don’t hit me again”

 

There she stood,
little face etched in pain,
tiny tears running down her bruised face,

Neck bent back,
looking up,
trying so hard to contain,
all her fear,
inside her small frame,

“What’s my name?,” he roared down,
body shaking with rage,
hand raised just in case,

“Daddy, Daddy,”
she whimpered again and again,
body shivering as she fought hard,
not to look away,
incase it inflamed his rage,

In the corner,
her mother stood,
tears streaming down her face,
wringing her hands,
trying so desperately,
to gather up the courage,
to push her husband away,

The neighbor broke the door down,
seconds too late,
the five year old lay on the floor,
eyes staring into another place,

Her mother over her body wailed,
“oh why, oh why child did you have to say,
‘Please Daddy don’t hit me again’.”

 iy©2010