Perhaps my father was the first,
with his absence,
except for the rare storms from his daytime slumber
to terrorize us into quiet so he could sleep.
I once got caught in the cross fire of his flying hands.
I was not yet 3.
My older sisters squealed and screamed him awake.
But I was too naive to run.
Before that, he was the myth my mother made us believe
about fatherhood and tender love.
First Cut II–
Another one I summons from memory caves
was the gorgeous boy
with the ass long shiny silk brown hair
and tan flawless skin sunk into Italian brown eyes.
I was 13 and he 15.
He paid me attention, walked with me at night
on a quiet moon-lit road named Candlewood as we
murmured our intentions, our future married selves
–or I did.
I couldn’t believe he was interested in me, a brainy
average-looking girl with the wrong kind of hair that refused
to hang long and straight from a middle combed part.
And a week after that walk under the old gibbous moon,
when I told him I wanted to marry a bodily lover,
he failed to appear, non-responsive, ghosted–
and I cried the cliché with a painful heart, torn
and scorned, never to be stabbed the same again,
my pillows my week-long companions in sob-town.
Though others made Caesar of my heart, dagger
hurlers and stabbers, I remember them vaguely.
Not like the first cuts, the baptismal soul’s sarcophagus.
First Cut: Poem 15
8 Replies to “First Cut: Poem 15”
If only we could forget those first cuts of betrayal. But then, to do so would mean we couldn’t learn from them.
Yes, they are as important as the first ecstasy.
This brings the heartache right back to me.
Funny how everyone has that first dumping stab wound. I think it’s the deception perception that hurts the most. I later heard this guy dumped me because I “didn’t give.”
thanks. have so many wounds from youth. they will never be healed. thanks for another beautiful poem.
It helps me a great deal to write about those hurts, in whatever form. Thank you for your kind words.
Thanks. This struck a chord in my heart to attempt to put this pain into words. “The grief that does not speak, whispers our o’erfrought heart and bids it break.”
Yes, exactly. Write.