“Beasts only lurk
in the dark woods beyond locked doors,”
so went the family tale.
When they grew into
little girls, the sisters came to know, some family tales
are just wishful dreams.
They stepped innocent
to the front, turning into tethered bait for the beast
lurking indoors.
Poisoned fangs
sinking deep, punctured muscle and wounded souls.
Under the genial surface
the sisters to this day
gasp, holding poison in tortured silence,
drawing agonized breaths
under roaring pain.
The skulking beast prances free, spilling poison
over silenced alarms.
One little girl
took her turn as her sisters did, joining ranks
with the rolling waves,
common pawns ordered
to the death march by blinded monarchs suppressing mutiny
until she stepped
out of the ranks
into the dark woods where the tigress beckoned
inviting her to tea.
“I know that thing,”
she said after the girl took her seat. “What thing,” said the girl
alert to the tigress’ disapproval.
“That story you tell yourself,”
the tigress twitched her whiskers, pouring tea into earthen cups,
“of bygones and dirty laundry.
There are no bygones
when you’re dealing with the beast. There’s no laundry dirty of yours.
It’s knotted poison
you nurse in tight embrace.
Notionally speaking, it’s time you dropped that where it belongs
in the beast’s bloody hamper.
Your silence is poisoned bargain
you never made. Come now, girl, give me a good growl, it’s the start of a
roar when the beast is near.”
Poetry in Life 