Untitled – poem – Work in Progress

Untitled

Good Catholic girls don’t
speak ill of the dead
They keep their lips tightly sealed
vaginas too
those furred beasts
that wail ‘feed me’
trapped in the oubliette
of the ilium
winnowing to skin and bone

It is really a wolf child
homini lupus
with fangs and claws
but with knowledge
of good and evil
hungering for God’s light

It bites the hands of priests
with their sour benedictions
and claws at nun’s who offer
purse-lipped smiles
It won’t keep mum
for family appearances

It loves its dead honestly
It is gnawing at the diseased vine
which is strangling the healthy tree
It is bathing in the rain
and, in turn, watering the roots of the tree
whose leaves turn green

Its own children are protected
by the beast’s ferocity and love
They all bay at the moon’s jewel
They learn to don a human face
but they are really wolf-people.

Lucy Simpson 9-13-2015

Weary, but still on the path…..

The thing about childhood trauma, is you get tired of it.  It is wearying to heal, so very wearying.  Still I feel as if I carry a bright lantern and am being led through a dark, subterranean maze.  I think there could be treasure down here.

Doesn’t help that I have a bad chest cold today and have to scour for a house inspection, go to work and help children with homework.  That said, this is my life and it is good and safe now.  I have a partner who loves me dearly, whose very scent is comforting in that way of oil of argon or sandalwood.  I have a dog, also a survivor, who is always with me, often underfoot, but with me.

No More Poison

All these years, while I have known the truth of my past, I have been mostly silent.  I had truly drunk the Kool-Aid to the point where I was asking myself if I had dreamt my childhood, rather than lived it.  The memories were like a movie that happened to someone else.  Now, as my daughter is nine, I feel as if I am hugging and reading to my neglected and abused nine-year-old self too, as if that ghost girl is also soaking in the love that I have.

At nine I was a fighter on playgrounds, a fighter for my mother when my father would verbally abuse her or physically threaten her.  Later, she would fail to stand up and leave him, to give up the alcohol.  He was the money and he kept that wine and booze rolling in. Addiction was more powerful than her love for her daughters or herself.  I couldn’t pull her out into the light.  I can only be in the light now.

Speaking the Truth Enables us to Hear the Truth

Graphite on 9 by 12 paper

It is Written

I went back to the house
of my childhood
to bury hate with love

I saw the faces of ghosts
justting out from the walls
each dear and feared face

My parents-my ancestors
parts of who dwell in my cells
parts trapped in rotted plaster

As if they were vines
pulling brick from brick
souls of Virginia creeper
dismantling the diseased house
for me
for my babies

They cannot speak the horrors
they have lived
but it is written
in their green leaves

and I, for one,
believe them

Lucy Simpson