On Being Silenced

When I was in my thirties I wanted to write the truth about everything, no matter how painful.  And it was important that I did write and share.   Now that I’m in my sixties, that is not so interesting to me.  I want to write more about the sound of the dry leaves falling from the trees on this warm early fall day, about being still and listening.

On Being Silenced

Am I the only one whose husband has had an affair?

or am I the only one talking about it?

my husband did have an affair

and while it was going on

I wrote about it

I wrote the truth

the whole truth

and then I shared it

shared it with everyone

every chance I got

and you know what happened?

I don’t think he liked it very much

that I did that

that I shared my poetry

how interesting, I thought

and I said,

but, darling, have you done something you’re ashamed of?

after all,

you expected me to handle it

certainly you can handle my

simply

writing poetry about it.

©1983

The night I was the woman in the red tights and black mini dress

 

This is the poem I’m reading in this photograph.  It was taken during the 1984 filming of “The Southern Sex, debunking the myth."  Unfortunately they only used the last two stanzas in the film.  I wrote it before I had grown sons and a wonderful husband.  And yet, I still do wonder. . .

This poem has to do with missed opportunity

and the labeling of women

who enjoy touch

just pure touch

as a whore and a slut

and I wonder

what do we call such men?

The night I was the woman in the red tights and black mini dress

“Good girls don’t”

so I did

I’m tired of being a “good girl” all the time

It was six years ago

he was the star

and he asked me

me? I had thought

not that I wasn’t trying to be attractive

even a little sexy

so I smiled

and he invited me to dinner

then I started thinking

you know how men are

they only want one “thing”

and “good girls” don’t give “it” to them

even if they wanted to

and boy did I want to

but I said no

can you believe it?

I said no

I couldn’t

I just couldn’t

I mean

after all

what would my mother say

and the priest

or my husband

heaven forbid

they would all call me a whore

or even worse

a prostitute

what’s the difference?

a whore does it for fun

and a prostitute does it for money

you know

sorta as in

being married

and he works hard for the money

and she gives him the “they only want one thing” thing

so anyway

I had to say no

and I’ve regretted it all these years

what would it have been like? I wondered

you know how it is

when there is something you really want

and you imagine it

and fantasize it

and then one day

the opportunity actually presents itself

and you turn it down!

the pits!

so last week-end

there I was

nearing the possibility

that the opportunity might present itself

one more time

I really doubted it

I was six years older now

he would certainly be more interested in the younger women

I wore my red tights and black mini dress, anyway

and then he did

he asked me

this is it

this is the “moment you’ve been waiting for” moment

so say it

say yes

you know you want to

“You asked me that same question six years ago”

I reminded him

“And what was your answer then?” he asked

“I’d like to think you’d have remembered

if my answer had been yes”

I told him and I knew then where I was headed

so say it

say yes

you know you want to

“I don’t have any birth control,” I said instead

and he did

“I didn’t shave my legs”

“No problem”

so say it

just go ahead and say it

say yes

you know you want to

so I did

I said yes

yes

I want to

I want to be a whore

and touch

just pure touch

no dinner

no drinks

just touch.

(c)1984

On Defining Rape to my Sixteen Year Old Daughter

My poetry is simply
one woman's story
There's no doubt
in my mind
when the soul enters
as Goddess of my Universe
I decide
whether by rape, incest
out of wedlock or within
troubled of happy
as Goddess of my Universe
I decide
a choice
I stand to lose
a prisoner of conscience
I may become.

and so I wrote
on defining rape to my 16 year old daughter
not the president
not the police
not the doctor
not the priest
as Goddess of my Univers
I decide.

On Defining Rape to my Sixteen Year Old Daughter

It was the fact that
she didn't spend the night with a girlfriend
as planned
she spent the night with a boyfriend
instead
that made me furious

"But mom, I didn't think anything would happen
or anyone would find our."

Of course not, darling
you were silence
you didn't tell a sour
and he did
first thing after he dropped you off
don't you know how boys talk?

It's not your virginity
it's your integrity
I feared lost
and baby
that's all we've got

You know what it is that mothers fear most?
it's not that you're made sweet love to
it's that he'll know all the right words
and make all the right moves
and that he'll want it
and you won't want to give it to him
and he'll take it anyway.

You know what that's called, darling?
Rape
and no one ever goes to jail for it
even though it's just as bad

and it's the fact that
it happens a lot
that makes me furious.
(c)1984

Equal Spread

Birth control is always an issue.  I so welcomed menopause.

 

Equal Spread

Well I just won’t do it

do sex anymore

but it’s all sex

my daddy said

if you want to keep your man

it’s all sex

you want to keep your man

don’t give him no cause to run around

it’s all sex baby

so I ask myself

what’s a woman to do

castrate, mutilate or self pollute

continue to try discipline and self control

or just don’t do it.

how many times have I laid upon that table

and spread my legs

fifteen times at least for each child

that’s sixty

once a year for twenty fertile years

that’s eighty

four cuts and stitches

pain killing shots and drugs

I even had the contents sucked out twice.

why

you’d think just once

he’d lay upon that table

spread his legs

and cut that flow.

© 1984

On Feeling Like a Shitty Mother

In 1984 I had just read Adrienne Rich's book "Of Woman Born."  She said that until women start writing the truth about there experience, no matter how painful, no one will know the truth about women.  So I did. 

On Feeling Like a Shitty Mother

Sitting at the kitchen table

my face is on fire

allergy

or is it stress?

I can barely write

my writst won’t move

we just took her to the airport

my fourteen year old daughter

she’s been living with her father

for the past nine years

one week just wasn’t enough

I  cried

I never cried before when she left

I tried to hold back the tears

what the fuck, I said

just let them flow

I cried for being such a shitty mother

for leaving her when she was five

for her wanting me to come back

and I never did

for not hearing her sing in the choir

for  not seeing her lead cheers

or play basket ball

for not being there when she came home from school

for not listening to her tell me what’s going on in her life

I cried

and the tears rolled down my face the salt set my skin on fire

What a wreck, I said

what a mess

red circles around puffy eyes

red streaks down each side my nose

and all along my jaw

one week just wasn’t enough

part II

sitting at the kitchen table

my face is on fire

my three year old asks me questions incessantly

what is this?

I keep writing

What is this?

I keep writing

I just don’t want to deal with him right now

What is this?  he asks again

 plunger, for when the toilet gets stopped up

but what is this?

and I snap

I just told you! it is a plunger

enunciating every syllable

wanting to scream

my face is on fire

I’m angry at this father

why is he here?

I want to call him up and demand his appearance

right now!

And when father finally arrives

son wants to play with him constantly

and I want to talk to father

and son and I fight for father’s attention

and father leaves

what’s the use?

of anything?

It’s a gray day

the kitchen’s a mess

as usual

my face is on fire

I have to talk to the IRS tomorrow

I am a delinquent taxpayer

and my bank account is overdrawn

I can’t pay you as much as I said I would

I told the woman on the phone

You mean you defaulted? She asks.

Well, yes, I guess so I answered

thinking how criminal that sounded

been spending too much time

worrying about who my husband was fucking

instead of tending to business

I wanted to tell her

But what did she care

We’re back to the old routine now

he’s not fucking her anymore

I gave him an ultimatum

It’s either her or me

I’m not risking any disease

Part III

mommie,  I’m hungry

I keep writing

mommie, I’m hungry

I keep writing

And he starts tugging at my arm

mommie I’m hungry

and I snap again

alright! What do you want?

a banana

more tears

and the salt burns

my face is on fire

and I cried again

for being such a shitty mother

© 1984

This is my first chapbook published in 1986.  I had to type it up, cut it up, paste it up and take it to Kinkos and make copies for the pages of the book.  The image is a drawing by Madelaine Enochs of a depression era photograph by Dorothea Lange. 



 

No Credit

No Credit

I’ve got no credit

they levied my account today

the IRS

took out all my money

can’t pay my bills

the money’s all gone

and I’m overdrawn

well then lady

you got no credit

can’t lend you no money

‘cause you got no credit

how come you don’t pay your taxes when due?

‘cause they’re too high

when you got babies

they’re too high

didn’t have no food

the day the taxes was due

so I used all the money

fed the babies instead

got no credit

and the baby got sick

took him to the doctor

and the doctor said

need my money today, lady

need my money today . . .

but

I haven’t got the money today

I said

I need help

You gotta job lady

you gotta W-2

no help for you

gotta be down and out

before the man

who pays the tax man

comes thru for you

maybe

business is good now

money comin’ in

pay the taxes every month

and the balance goes up

it’s penalty and interest

they say

I don’t send enough

their way

how do I get out of this mess? I ask

save save save my daddy said

save 10% says the book I read

Okay

okay

I will

business is slow now

snowed all day and the day before

gotta pay the rent

gotta pay for the heat

another baby’s comin’

can’t work all day

didn’t want my tubes tied

don’t want to suck it out

there’s gotta be another way

they levied my account again today

the IRS

took out all my money

how’d I get in this mess?

Is it too many babies?

Well I want to say

to the tas man

these babies aren’t

just for me

to the tax man

I want to say

in 25 years

when you’re old and gray

whose gonna change your bedpan?

©1986

Punk at three and a half

 

            Punk at three and a half

            We got a note from his teacher

            I mean, he’s only three and a half

            It’s the sillies, she said

            he’s got the sillies

            he won’t settle down

            and do his work

            he’s just too silly

            having too much fun

            he doesn’t seem to know

            what is socially unacceptable.

            I’ve been wondering what would happen

            all this freedom he’s been having

            I never say no

            unless

            it’s morally wrong

            or

            physically damaging.

            So this is how he turned out

            too silly.

            What is socially unacceptable, anyway?

            I ask.

            Playing in his food.

            Interesting, I say, considering

            his favorite friend is an artist

            and she calls food art

            and Hershey’s syrup food paint.

            Maybe he’s making food art?

            And about his hair

            maybe it would be better

            if he didn’t get it cut so short

            it disrupts the class

            the children gather ‘round him

            what did you do to your hair?  

            they ask

            and they all want to touch it.

            Oh my God

            they want to touch him?

            He’s the one who wants it cut so short

            do you think it could be

            he likes to be touched?

            So this is how he turned out

            too silly

            having too much fun

            and he likes to be touched

            What is socially unacceptable

            anyway?  (c) 1984

If you're the child of a writer you can expect that at some point you will be written about.  It's easier when the kids are young.  It gets harder as they get older.  I'm not sure why that is.  Maybe when they are younger it's expected that the parent will have opinions.  When the kids get older those opinions are more open for debate.  And it's not that you don't want to debate them.  Just not with your kids.