August 22, 2011

Psalm for the unregistered children.


 

    Taking survivors' accounts seriously can help us decide whether lives     such as they describe could conceivably have been lived. Sarah Scott,     Beyond Disbelief: The politics and experience of ritual abuse (2001)     p.66.


 


 

        

            No cloaks here.


 

    But April snow pelts the jogger in shorts

and the granite memorial in a one pub

        two cemetery North East village.

The nerves of another wisdom lost to grinding

won't give up. I am not buried.


 

    but was a soldier as a child flat chested,

armed, sewing the heather with wire

        eating out of tins and counting everything

twice until the November

    when my peers took me back to the burn

        where I shared my plans to show me theirs.

        
 

                     Stones

        and cold Angus waters. One girl can hold so much.

    Like our old white hen dead beneath the hen hut; no more clucking

        amongst the common reds.

The air was turning green when the game keepers

    gave me my options, sky

and birdsong soaked up their empty souls,

         I chose the kennel

and further resented Ernest

        for over salting his tattie skins.

    It's not good

for you

        and he knows I hate too much salt.

    Uniforms set me loose, hosed of the dog shit, took me to the suits

then left me in the field

            with orders to ask for help.

        I watched the Scholastic ledger turn to cabinets

through my application

        Years on the phone

making holes in the wall with

            with a cork board pin sent me

and my E cups in a C cup bra

        to a warm Southern suburban study

    a golden tree dappled light full of savinours and art objects

        that I would have to kill to examine alone

    Make sure they know not to mention the money, emphasise costumes,

and if they cant remember any baby sacrifices make one up.

        In Latin as broken as he was.


 

    The bracken turned to split bones

all the houses are machines. I scrubbed carpets and rinsed

    signs from my body and no longer worried about what they meant

        You will see the world.


 

    drugged, dissociated and subjugated. This is a pewter chalice

either half brimming or fallow my god I could make any alloy shine

        Pulled to a T shrinking to a dot, just another zero,

no xs left to mark the spot

but still I reproduce, there are corners

    in every Holliday Inn

        that will be forever me.

            May hail


 

    clatters through and open north facing window

the cat stands on the space bar and the monitor lights

    up the room. I'm huddled and racked

        in period pain smiling

as Junior sings gaffuwing in his sleep.


 

    It's almost

        almost June. My dreams went from rust

to jade overnight, the bikes are opening up along the straight lines

that lead from the house. Outside my niece is singing


 

Someday my prince will come, we'll meet on match.com

and of to pub we shall go.