Harm by Dawn Potter

The bruises leer at her,
mottled, black,
as if Satan has beaten her soft
white thighs with a hammer.
Who’d be hitting on you?
the man laughs, askance. This is a joke
but not a joke.
The bruises are as fat as fists
and they reek of evil.

It wasn’t him, don’t think it—
not him, not him.
God’s truth, she’s got no one
to blame but herself.
She bumps into walls and doorframes,
trips over chairs, collides with stone.
Fifty years old, and she still
doesn’t know where her body is
or what it’s supposed to be doing.

The bruises appear without warning,
mornings mostly.
The colors shift—from black, to purple, to a sick
and bloodless green,
hue of the sky on Judgment Day.
Maybe it’s sleep,
maybe the demons are bent on killing her,
but the only details that cling
are a small cat, a spoon, an empty road.

Bewildered, she stands at the mirror.
From the bed, the man asks,
Do they hurt?
Go ahead! the bruises cackle.
Tell him, tell him!
But she can’t speak the words for misery
or ignorance, the scrape of mortified flesh,
the peaceful hideous damage of dreams.

From: http://acrossthemargin.com/two-poems-dawn-potter/

Date: 2016

By: Dawn Potter (19??- )

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: