Mom, Don't Cry

(A True Story Of Childhood's End)




Sitting in the back seat,
just mindin' my own business,
Mom glanced in the mirror
and shocked me with her question:
Had anyone, at any time,
touched me inappropriately?
Of course not, was my scoffed reply
I've no idea what you mean.

I sat and pondered what provoked
her asking such a thing.
And suddenly I got very sick.
I could almost feel a physical shift,
deep within my mind;
a rusty key turned in a stubborn lock
and black mud then flooded in.

I'd forgotten things forbidden,
under penalty of harm,
to tell my mother about my uncle
and things he'd done to me.
I never told her all he'd done
like sticking things where not intended:
in a mouth or anywhere,
involving little girls.

I'm still not sure how far he went,
I've blocked it from my life;
I do know that my little sister
probably fared worse than me.

I want to say that those who think
a child outgrows the horror,
never had such things done the them
or they would know much better.
I was twelve and she was nine
When the worst of these things happened;
I learned to forgive but never trust
and she just learned to seek.

I live in rabid fear of men,
my sister sought them out.
We both have lived in the aftermath,
of one man's unrestraint.

I'm still not sure which struck me most,
the knowledge I'd been used,
or the silent tears running down Mom's face
when she'd confirmed her darkest fears.




©2008
1-17-2008