Tap Dancing Lessons

"Getting ready for the big time, tap
dancing on a land mine" —Aerosmith

Never knowing,
that's the hard part.  Every day
she hopes for the best, fears
the worst.  Every
day tries to make the door
knob turn soundlessly, buy herself
some time so she can open the door un-
noticed, listen for tell-tale sounds—
the nervous taps of fingers, 
toes, the loud-voiced
wail of old hymns—clues, subtle 
and ominous as a time
bomb, ticking its way
toward an inevitable
blast.  

"Come in, 
darling.  Why are you dawdling 
by that door? Come in 
and give your Mama a great big
hug and I'll get you some milk
and Oreos and you can tell me 
all about your day at school."

Sighing relief, the all clear 
sounded for the time being, she enters,
knowing full well things could change
in a snap.  Knowing 
her mother is different, often 
strikes suddenly, is armed
with curses and fury.  Only six,
already she has learned 
about danger, learned that 
continued survival 
requires continuous vigilance,  
that a single thoughtless 
skip, jump, tap of her toe 
could be her very last.  

 
Sentence

"I'm a prisoner!"
Their conversations all begin this way now.  "He
took it all away!"  She imagines the phrase	
emblazoned on a banner, "He"
in bold italic font, a pronoun 
that contains multitudes—includes her Aunt's son,
doctor, God, the world.  

It's her driver's license
that has been taken, but
with it has gone
her freedom.

Ninety years old, this woman has survived
heart disease, cancer, two husbands, eight siblings,
and unnumbered friends.  Now she's holed up 
in the home she helped to build
more than sixty years ago.  Ask and she'll tell you 
how she changed the builder's plans—erased 
a line here, put in another there.  
The ambulance crew who come
again and again know all about this, 
just as they know they cannot 
get a stretcher in, must take her outside 
seated on a kitchen chair.

"Solitary confinement, that's what it is!"
she growls, after a row of sentences
that make little sense at all.  "A damn
life sentence!"  

Her niece points out that 
she's still in her own home, that people 
come to help, that her sons, 
daughters-in-law, grand-children 
visit often, call 
almost every day.

"Shit, shit on them all!" she answers, 
using words her niece 
has never heard her utter before,
"I'm on death's row, I know that!  One day 
they'll find me in a heap, hell, 
they probably pray for it.  
I'm a goddamned dead woman walking . . .      
Oh, did I tell you Meals on Wheels brought
blueberry pie for desert today? It was lovely, 
tasted just like
bullshit."
 

Heat Exhaustion

               I

When they bring her the news
she tries to be sad
just as she did 
those times she'd lose a baby—
blood snaking down her legs
cramps coming way too soon.  But 
all she feels is relief.

An accident
they say.  Don't worry, she and the kids
will do okay, there's compensation,
insurance, benefits.  Death
benefits.  Yes, everything
will be alright.

Alright!   She's heard that before.
Seven babies in twelve years, not counting
those that didn't take.  Oh,
she'd loved him once, his hands hot on her
body, his breath burning
in her ear, begging, Please, oh please.
Say yes, and I promise
everything will be alright.

So she let his hands
spread their warmth, part
her thighs, change her life.  Her father
crying as he walked her down the aisle,
her Sunday dress stretched tight.  A wife
at seventeen.  A mother
three months later.  And he,
still saying over and over
that everything was alright.

Except he hated the factory.  Once
he'd had plans—trade school, carpentry, now
there was no time.  Babies kept coming,
colicky, big.  How many times 
had she asked permission,
begged to use something.  But the priest
only coughed, his silhouette
outlined through the confessional's mesh.
He'd cough, shake his head and launch into
his set speech.  Sin, sacrament,
duty ringing in her ears.


               II

She told herself he was 
a good husband, or at least
tried to be.  Worked overtime
when he could.  Of course, he drank up
most of the extra with the boys,
while she waited at home.  And often
just when she'd quieted the kids down,
closed her own eyes,
he'd come home, the smell of beer
outpacing him up the stairs.  She'd lie
still, try not to hear the bathroom sounds—
grunts, belches, farts, the gush of piss slowing
to a trickle, clothes
dropping to the tiled floor.

She'd pretend to be asleep,
but still he'd climb onto her.
No kisses, not a gentle touch
just up with her nightie
and poke, poke, poke.

The first time 
she'd said no, sobbed
till he pushed away.  They'd fought
that whole night.  Next day
he'd called in sick—a day's pay gone,
and him asleep, while, eyes red,
mind numb, she'd had to get up,
care for the kids.

After that, she just took it.
Body stiff, unmoving,
she'd hold her breath,
count in her head—
one-two-three . . . until
it was done.

But, even so, she had loved him
once, was, after all,
still his wife.  And every now and then
he'd treat her right—touch her,
kiss her, and the heat
would rise, well up
from some hidden place.  Then,
for a while, she'd be young again, safe,
warm in his arms, almost forgetting, till
a toddler would shriek, a baby wail.


               III

Except the warmth came less
and less.  Even when he'd really try,
exhaustion blanketed her nights,
extinguished sparks before
they had the chance to flame.

Now when other factory wives
come around bringing baked goods,
hand-me-downs, sympathy,
she sees the same exhaustion burning
in their faces, knows
she's better off.  And
when one or the other asks
if she misses (voice softening
so the children won't hear) the warmth
of a man in her bed,
she cannot answer, will not explain,
simply shakes her head and whispers,
"It's fine like this, really, it's
alright, everything 
is quite all right."