Schism

When did it rip and the tear appear?

And whose hands did it?

The interject, the splinter-shot

the violation of your unfolding

as others do.

 

You came forward different

thorny and beaten

your unfurling violent and self-loathing

the constant sense that nothing is right

not with you, not in your head.

 

Rage

bitter

manipulation-

mastering the emotional knot-

drawing needy hero types to your side

flipping and twirling them around sad fingers

bringing one of them out from your womb -

the daughter who bore you.

 

She also saw you;

before the hitch became the breach

whole grains, books, paintings, peacock-purple silk,

Three Little Birds singing don't worry 'bout a thing,

brown mascara perfect to your soft eyes.

 

She ingested all the stories too – gnawing at rusks, cutting baby teeth:

the hundred different schools

the curtains always drawn

the tranquillised mother

bizarrely sadistic father

the skirmish with the devil

and the amphetamine on the beach at fifteen.

 

Then the second movement -

the Pentecostal experience

the miracle of two sets of twins

the morbid obsession with alcohol

induced psychosis, repeated

attempts at suicide - histrionic flourishes to your dramaturgy.

 

Casting odd characters

drinking partners sent scurrying

to and from the off license

the Dole to get a Crisis Loan

the chemist for the 'script

the dealer's to trade it for dope.

 

Raving with beyond human stamina

propelling us into the smallest, unkindest hours -

then the cowering and shaking,

pale and timid at your own reflection.

 

You.

Borderline.

Split.

Circuitous.

 

The daughter who bore you

revises history in the language of the DSM-5

trauma...

disrupted...

maladaptive...

She is staring into new books, observing her face in new spheres

trying to understand

you,

and

what tore you.