He would grab me by the shoulders and slam my body into the corner
of the kitchen to the left of the icebox. I could feel his nails digging into the
skin of my back. He would shake me then and the room would become
blurred and mixed together. I equated these sensations with going crazy. I
could hear his yelling at me but it was difficult to connect the sounds with
the openings and closings of his mouth. His bald head seemed like an
enormous egg moving toward me in slow motion, growing larger, skewed at
one end. He would slap me full force across my face and head, causing my
ears to ring. He would hit me like that and scream hysterically for me to
stop crying. Hit and scream. Hit and scream. At first I could not stop
crying and my mother would push between us. I would sob and shake so
severely I felt faint. But with each incident I began to feel the pain less and
less. I learned to swallow and swallow and swallow until I gained complete
control of the emotion and contained it in my chest and stomach by holding
my breath. I collected the muscles in my face, tightened and clenched my
jaw so that it became sculptured into a perfect calm. By the age of ten I had
become an expert at it.
— Excerpt from a therapy session
I. Falling
The blow
uproots me,
a sapling
torn by wind,
ejects me
off the world,
freefalling
to a black hole
at the bottom of space
Shock waves
reverberate
into the stratosphere
Continents, oceans blaze
Beggars riot in New Delhi
Perched above the dream
on smoking fragments,
I pack cartridges
watch my shape
sinking:
Pale infant head,
spinning target eyes,
mouth of sparrow beak
tumbling,
clawing
anti-matter
II. Eyes
I am followed
by hooded men
stretching rubber legs
from tree to tree
along night streets
in the old neighborhood
hissing
Spotlights from their eyes
crisscross the pavement,
but I pretend not to notice
If I just stay calm
and don’t run
they might call it off —
dogs bored with their own
snarling
I keep telling myself:
“Turn down an alley,
crawl through a window,
wait as they slide by”
In the streetlight
I see the barbed wire
barricades
What offense has been committed?
Why do they follow
but never attack?
“Who are you?” I shout
“What do you want?
Give me more than echoes?”
Their light tubes converge
I can’t run,
legs too heavy,
and the weapon’s
strapped to my back
like a guitar
I prepare for an assault
that never comes,
just one large eye
opening above
the sycamores
I climb its beam,
poke my head into
a socket,
wriggle through,
tumble
into a field of flowers
I hear myself laughing,
“Aha…so this is how it is,”
and float like cottonseed
on a warm wind,
inhaling chrysanthemum,
dalhia
Orchid
III. Machine Gun Fire
The car has no driver
It takes the curves
at ninety-six
Crouched in the back seat,
hands chained to ankles,
I wait for the crash
The car fishtails
through stoplights,
railroad crossings,
striped road blocks,
plunges over
the hill’s crest
banging parked cars,
light poles, curbings,
the retaining walls
that funnel it through
the plate glass window
They stand near the pool table
under mobster hats
chalking cue sticks,
laughing at the wreckage,
at me broken on the floor
They are all here —
unmasked,
fathers, grandfathers,
generations of anger,
clucking tongues,
wagging fingers,
pursing lips
I find the leather case,
unpack each carefully oiled part,
assemble it,
adjust the sling,
load, release the bolt —
chink, chunk —
tuck it under my arm,
and then I fire
scattering
brain bit and bone
Before this is over,
I will kill them all
All