Fruit Born of Bitter Roots

23/02/2010

Health, Human Rights, Literature, Personal, Poetry, Social Commentary

I’m strong.
Yes, I’m strong.
Got the blood of 400 years of Afro-Indian-Scottish
Women in my loins.

Who did this to you?
Who did not I say?
Even I participated in the
Charades.

A picture perfect specimen
My face, a porcelain doll’s,
Painted umber cream,
Slips and slides across tear stained teeth.

Cannot pretend others do not see.
I was ruined with the highest visibility.
An elaborate Biltmore wedding,
Dressed in red, the paraded princess,
With Humpty’s hubris I tumbled
Down the precipice.

The ruse was up.
My pain revealed.
Laid bare like a drunk,
In the middle afternoon park.

Just when I thought I stopped dying, more came.
Just when I thought I stopped crying, more pain.
Just when I thought I stopped feeling, more drain,
Pulling at my fragile heart strings,
Beating for freedom against my chest cavity,
“Release me”, it thumped,
Its tell tale lament pump by pump.

Prognosticated years before,
Mother had a dream,
First time in years,
It was about me.

I am in an apartment,
She does not know where,
I’m mentally ill, her
Porcelain painted dear.

How could she know?
Nor any of us then,
That a husband most beloved,
Would abandoned a wife eight months
Pregnant.

Sitting in an apartment, the coldness
Of which was exemplified in the marble glint
Of polished floors installed by the
Accursed.

In the long days between fear of foul play
And knowledge of his malfeasance,
I sat on the veranda twelve stories up,
Gazed down upon clear Florida waters,
And fought the call to end it all.

Who did this to me?
We know his name, the archetypal villain,
In a long chain, of men modeled after my begetter,
Who holds the title of most egregious offender.

Seven years hence, I chose life and not death,
As it remained for me to forgive and release,
Myself, my shame, and my need to reinvent.
A father broken and his daughter damaged by this,
I buried the child and resurrected the woman.

Rose up off bended knee,
Straightened my heart wrenched back,
Stood tall to become mother of my husband’s seed,
Because I’m strong, yes, I am strong,
Got the blood of 400 years of Afro-Indian-Scottish
Women in my loins.

Author: Ayanna Nahmias