Little Monster
I watch ‘I love daddy,’
rise and fall for the umpteenth time on your torso,
caress Michelin’s limbs jutting out of the onesie pulled firm across your diapered butt.
I count fingers and toes as if extra digits have sprouted since the last math.
Folklore says your smile is caused by a spider—science says it’s the REM phase;
it’s the sand person blowing raspberries in your navel.
There are two kinds of death.
The first is the one most mortals fear,
eye with growing trepidation
from backs bowed from age weights.
It plays cello with nerves, turns bones to chalk
and with the snap of fingers,
tegument is reduced to a busy map,
in the flight of youth, disease, or both;
it’s never guilty of discrimination.
The twin brought forth the day one is born;
to celebrate life is to acknowledge
the shutting of eyes into continuum.
The second snatches seconds from minutes,
minutes from hours, hours from days,
days from months, and months from years.
Tis the interpretation of every sigh ladened breath,
words swallowed in a chasm of silence,
the imagined accusations,
pellets stinging back,
breaking teeth, and gouging eyes.
The sand storm that fills lungs from dust bowls of indiscretions,
between the micro-centimeters of grinding teeth, under eyelids,
and sheets against skin – remnants of sin.
The second snatches pieces of peace,
relieving of simple pleasures,
a thief that breaks in through the back door,
takes up residence within your walls.
It dares you to speak,
to reclaim your beleaguered existence
it plunders, mocks you to find your voice
and claim your possession.
It knows without agency,
you cannot—will not utter that which it holds over your head,
you are but an empty shell
a relic of what was,
should have,
and could have been.
The walls are closing in.
Faces once-beloved grow dim.
Familiar voices fade into a kaleidoscope of memories.
Echoes from a past, now told by others.
Screens filled with pictures—images picked from a shared landscape.
Journeyed paths with kinship.
Gatherings of sisterhood and knights, celebrating annual traditions.
Prints capturing the former, now gathering dust on the mantlepiece.
Sitting in the corner—observing others.
Hair, once thick black yarned coils, now coarse and grey.
Eyes half shut, barely pierced with light.
Cascaded wrinkles over gnarled digits.
Rainbowed taffeta covers wearied limbs.
Listening to tales I once foretold.
On my knees, I once bounced the teller.
These twin-hanging lumps once suckled three.
Is it Monday or Friday? I forget.
Did Christmas come early with gifts for me?
It’s Sunday, Grandma—April, not December.
They surround me, singing, this strange banquet of others.
Faces no longer familiar, yet eyes sparkling with remembrance.
The teller covers me in plush white,
bestows a lingering kiss on a weathered cheek.
A tear drops from his eyes onto my nose.
A shutter opens.
A sliver of light shines, illuminating his face.
A second becomes a minute,
In the glimmer, I see him.
My forefinger traces a once-familiar path—I recollect for just a moment.
‘Happy birthday, Mama.’
Through the cobweb of memories, I smile.
I cannot remember his name.
But, I cannot forget the love.
Dark and tall, he would be.
Teeth—milk sprung fresh from cattle tits.
Strong arms, toned shoulders, an abdomen of stone.
Black pearls as eyes, a bottomless pool to lose myself.
His prowess between the sheets—secret whispers of passionate encounters.
Long after climax—skin tingling from the aftermath of his touch.
Drenching me in precious stones—diamonds and laces adorning, bricks of gold in deposit boxes, millions in every currency, palatial abodes as home.
I will be loved, accepted, and above all protected.
He would defend my honor. And if I had none, he would manufacture it—wrap me in it; affix me on a pedestal no one could knock me off.
To and fro as I please, I will go.
Taking much, giving little—nonetheless, he will be grateful.
Up and down, back and forth, near and far, I searched for him.
The ground of reality was filled with stones and stubbles that bruised my heels.
I scratched the surface—till my nails broke and fingers bled.
There he is!
Yes, the one I traveled long and wide to reach.
His lips—sweet and intoxicating.
The more I drink, the more I thirst.
I am pulled into his magnetic core, oblivious of all others.
My contemplations are reflections of different shades of glistening embers, the sky offering blue-turquoise blankets in obedience to the giddiness in my bosom.
Red rushes from my center to ears, neck, and face—filling each pore and cell, hitting the blue—wrapping me in a wealth of purple.
With experience and growth, my list has been reviewed.
Spiritual wealth trumps materialism.
Strength in character was now number one.
He called me out on bad behavior, gave his best, and expected no less.
“You don’t check all the boxes!”
“Neither do you, but I’m still here!”
Realizing my folly, I looked within.
Should it have been about him or about me?
He wasn’t to complete but to compliment.
Love for myself I eventually found.
Pieces of me—breathing fire and moss.
The treasure I sought was here, within me to unearth, all along.
he pinches siblings
hurls insults at parents
flips the bird at authority
no regard for boundaries
watch out, little monster
he’s just a kid
he’ll grow out of it
he’s having a bad day
you do something
they make excuses
refuse to reign him in
sooner or later
it may take days, months or years
all come to see
the monster defanged
humbled and disabled
a burden to you
him and everyone
he’s a byword
an example of what not to be
it could have been helped
if they had taken action to bear
another face in love
set guards on unchecked behavior
We are all signposts, pointing in different directions.
I am north…you are east…or south. All of us are testaments of misadventure or adventure.
Everyone believes in purpose or wandering to find one.
I face North, determined to be correct.
You face South, stubbornly just. I question your intent; you challenge mine.
We eye each other from a distance, not listening…not caring…doubling down on differing choices.
The years fly by, and loneliness bites hard.
I forget which signpost you were.
omobolablog 