1973

this is the one time you

will ever see your mother cry,

so pay attention

 

six, seven months pregnant and just the

two of you in the house,

exposed,

isolated,

and the wooded lot just across the street

 

the laughter and the whistles,

the idea of rape tossed out lightly like

a dove from open hands

 

rocks thrown from behind the trees and bushes and

then the sound they make against the

side of the house,against the living room window,

and where are the neighbors?

 

why is there no passing traffic?

 

not today

 

and she stands just to the side of the glass,

behind the curtains,

and do you remember being ignored?

 

do you wonder why you never

wondered where your father was?

 

why this is all only told

from your own limited point of view?

 

and then there they are, no warning,

the tears,

silent and luminous and maybe

your breath catches in your throat

 

maybe your heart misses a beat

 

and you stay where you are,

 

and you watch

 

you remember everything about this moment,

but you forget growing up

 

bits and pieces, sure, but

the bigger picture is blurred, is ripped and torn,

pages missing, images distorted, and

does the moment end?

 

it must, because here you are

all these wasted years later, children of

your own and a whole net set of fears,

but who to ask?

who to tell?

 

best to keep quiet, to bleed cautiously and

only in darkened rooms

 

best to get drunk or stoned,

maybe laid, and

best to just bite your tongue

 

maybe turn the radio up and sing along

 

stand back out of sight while the

moment is played like a fixed game,

while it stretches and darkens,

while despair continues to build in

the pit of your stomach

 

this new golden age of elastic time where

nothing ever ends

and all of us are marked

 

a hand on the doorknob?

 

a mouth opened up to scream?

 

the first day of the black hole your

life will inevitably become