Madness
A padlocked door,
behind it food
(but not for you)
air conditioning
(but not for you),
inside a sagging house
bowed with neglect,
faded yellow paint,
cracked window panes,
missing screens long lost,
doors that barely latch
let alone lock.
Fighting siblings
for moments
by the heat vent,
avoiding the cockroaches
scurrying under the bed,
creeping in drawers,
crawling over counters.
Leaving a cold house
on early mornings
with an empty stomach
to walk the long walk
to classrooms
of people confirming
what you already know:
there is no fitting in here.
Sitting in hallways
listening to the others
with their various
classroom parties
and birthday treats
(but not for you).
keeping your feet flat
so no one can see
the black foam
worn through the soles
of your $2.50 shoes
from the dollar store.
sent home yet
again, white hair
betraying black lice.
Even the body betrays,
adding feminine
burdens with her
monthly calculations.
Scavenging nickels
for the tampon machine
at school.
Ever worrying
how this body smells.
I muddled through
that time, that place,
head down, shoulders
rounded, surviving
in the scraps
of their life,
with the muted
desperation
of a soul longing for
moments of relief:
kind words
(not theirs),
a sweet orange
(not from them),
clothes not ridiculous.
(donated by others).
Day after day.
week after week.
month after month.
time crawls by
under the thumb
of struggle,
unmet need
in plain sight.
This daily misery alone
would be enough
to drive a child
slowly mad,
desperate for any
reprieve,
even a bad one.
Never mind the rest of it.
The eruptions
of insanity,
spewing violence
and terror.
An arm (or belt)
coming down
again and again.
The hole in the wall
covered by a picture.
Shattered dishes sparkling
in the sunlight
outside the back door.
Fresh bruises (not yours).
The night time outbursts,
lying in your bed listening
to the screaming.
Jerked awake at 2am
to keep them company
in the night,
while they rage
and despair,
while they tell you
again and again
how terrible their
life has been.
That is
how it was.
For a time
I looked back
on those years
through
the gray veil of
detachment.
Telling myself
those sufferings
made me
stronger.
But as my own children
grow up around me
the gray veil thins.
And in my own healing
I find myself asking:
How did anyone
escape that
mind numbing
madness?
I do not know.
How did I?
I don’t know.