Legacy

It held me back - your silence.

It kept me in - your secret.

It clogged my pores and made it difficult to breathe. 

I’ve been sullied by your pain.

I grew, deformed and damaged from the weight of your terrible death

and your refusal to cry.

You were there when it happened

though your tiny womb eyes could not see.

Were there fearful angry shouts before he...?

The passionate mistake that imagined betrayal.

Was there blood as he fell?

Did my grandmother scream?

Did my grandfather cry, or care?

Did they think about the tiny life inside: my mother?

As that man fell dead, did the barrel smoke?

Did they think of the legacy?

A man innocent but dead.

Lips screaming not, as he thought, kissed.

A woman left frightened and alone -

carrying and birthing the child who later became sick with what I know

was unspoken trauma.

How secrets make us sick.

A slow poison that drips and trickles down, to later little lives.

We felt the pain of our unseen scars

but found no explanation.

Her death opened you sorely, though still you take no responsibility.

I met your six-year old self for the first time.

That little abused girl too frightened to speak or cry -

so long hidden by your violence.

So long you have been my heaviest fear.

I want to carry you my mother-baby,

rock you softly to sleep.

Gently back to life. 


My scars are becoming visible as you speak,

dissolving as you tell.

It’s starting to make sense.

Maybe we’ll even heal.

My child will breathe.