This is a poem I wrote for my poem’s class that I just started. It’s suppose to be referencing a childhood memory.
A pinch and a punch greeted me at the door.
I didn’t care this time.
The winter wind pushed them away.
They couldn’t take away the joy.
I could still feel the fun and giggles washing over me.
Four whole hours of peace
no torment dressed as children to be found.
I entered my house.
My stepmother’s house.
The glow of those wonderful hours
dispelled the darkness in the corners.
I walked up the stairs to see my stepmother standing
arms folded, blocking my path.
The look on her face.
The joy flittered away
I tried to reach out to it
to not let go.
My father sat at the table, head bowed low to the table.
The screaming started
whipping me this way and that.
On my father’s lap I sat
he didn’t mind my snow.
Drip, Drip, Drip was
the staccato beats to her war cry.
The familiar sense of fear, shame and chaos
wrapped around me.
I sat – as my father
making patterns from the swirls on the table.