Sunday, 11 September 2011

Angela by Anonymous

That pale little hand being led to the bedroom
Those corduroy jeans being tossed to the floor
That innocent smile as he leans in to kiss her
The green of her eyes as they lay down for more
The very same eyes I caught reading Harry Potter past their bedtime.

Those bouncy red curls flattened against the bedspread
Twisted and tangled and coated in gel
Those delicate hands exploring his body
Those tiny girl’s hands, that I knew so well
The very same that shook me awake year after year on Christmas morning.

What happened to the little princess?
The cross country runner?
The sweet baby girl?

The science fair champion:
Arching her back and closing her eyes
gasping and panting and
pulling him closer
To the body I held in the hospital.

The clumsy ballerina:
Being rocked back and forth
Going limp with pleasure
Sighing satisfied
With the voice that asked me for a later bed time.

My rosy cheeked child who loved musical theatre
and wore purple sweaters
is gone.

1 comment:

  1. The poet is from Philadelphia but wishes to remain anonymous.

    A bit of story behind this poem!

    Author's comments:
    A few weeks ago my best friend and I were sitting at her kitchen table just like we do every Tuesday after school and before play practice. Out of nowhere her mother burst into the kitchen holding the bottle of birth control pills that my friend had been taking behind her back. She didn't yell at my friend for hiding the fact that she'd been having sex from her, nor did she break into tears. She just stared at her daughter for the longest time with this penetrating expression on her face. For days it haunted me it was confused, wounded--indescribable. The pain I found in her eyes was what inspired this poem.