In a dark time, the eye begins to see, I meet my shadow in the deepening shade
– Theodore Roethke
Push her out to sea. She was broken and can’t be set right. That girl died the day she was touched. Whatever girl you were going to be before that day has died and can never be reborn. So set her adrift on the sea, let the mother take her back to the bosom of the earth where all things come home and are turned to corruption and eaten by sharks and shat into the finite waters that infinitely cycle. As far as we know. Or don’t. And instead end. At which point it truly doesn’t matter, because there is nothing left to consider how it may have turned out differently.
But what world was she born into? A world where the Golden State Killer was already busy raping fifty women and girls just down the hill. Not a world untouched by tragedy and horror. Just who does she think she is, believing herself exempt from what the earth was already soaking in? Long before she was a twinkle in her mother’s eyes. None are exempt. Uncle Adam always said, “We will all sell out. It’s just a matter of when, and for how much.”
I sold early, and often. My first price was cheap.
Just the cost of not protesting, not refusing, not asking questions, not complaining. It was a steeper price than I understood. It was so quiet. Almost like nothing had happened. Almost.
But in truth I died that day. Only my small-boned body walked away from that room, but not my spirit.
So lay me down in the boat of sacrifice. Set me adrift on the current. My ancestors were laid upon wagons with wheels of gold. Burned at sea in a dory adorned with flowers and plaits of flax and linen.
She never wants to be burdened again with the press of someone else’s needs not her own.
She doesn’t wish to walk this world where things happen where you’re just singing and playing with paper dolls.
Let the sun never burn her skin.
Let the sand never scratch her eyes.
Let the cold never creep in.
Let hunger never find her.
Let pain never weaken her.
Let a soft heart never trouble her.
Let time take her under into Hades Halls and keep her there forever.
Let her mother know she will never return so she can commence her grief and move on.
He took her and she never really returned.
I would murder him but its much too late. The damage done.
Eve bit the apple and then she knew. She couldn’t unknow. The snake wormed it’s way in between her pink perfect gates and then she couldn’t unsee what was sawn.
Sawn in two, like the magician’s assistant.
Never the one in power.
Always the one used, dismembered, disappeared, divided from herself.
Look pretty now.
You were born so we have the right to flay the flesh from your bones and you’ll like it. Dangle your children over the abyss with us or you’re a killjoy.
Peggy and Fred were not the first and they won’t be the last:
Natural Born Killers
Nancy and Sid
But every pregnant female dreams she will defeat the darkness.
Laci Peterson kept her house clean and decorated Connor’s crib. She never dreamed she’d be lain in that low boat, weighted down by someone else’s needs. Turned to corruption.
Female flesh meets the male gaze.
Until then we’re all Schrodinger’s Cat. Virgin pussy, waiting to be told if we’re alive or dead.
My daughter was tear gassed by riot cops on the streets of New Orleans. But that wasn’t the first blow, oh no, not by far:
Vaccinations and Addiction
Poison Oak and Poison Words
Soft white cheeks burned blistered by Birthday One
Soft heart hardening by Birthday Twelve
I’m like a frantic rabbit throwing itself under freighter wheels on a long stretch of highway.
Good luck with that, Bub. This girl was born the day the Rodney King Riots began. Who do you think you are? Wake up.
So lay her down in the wagon. Lay her down in the town. Lay her down in the dinghy and let go, let her drown. Like Ophelia, we’ll watch her sink and soak and rot and ripen and flesh fall from bones and lotuses grow where she falls.
On Being Owned
Tobacco Brides: In 1619, 90 young single women were transported by ship from England to the Jamestown Colony in the New World to become wives of the men there. Upon arrival, the women were each auctioned off to a man for the price of 150 pounds of tobacco, paid to the shipping company that transported them. The women then were considered the legal property of the man who purchased their transportation.
In early America, “housewife” referred to a married woman’s legal economic position. Under law of “coverture,” a wife had no separate legal identity; everything she did was under the authority of her husband. He controlled all the money, including any dowry or inheritance she might have brought to the marriage.
A married woman was responsible for feeding, cleaning and medical care for everyone in the household, as well as supervising the servants. The housewife’s domain might also include “cellars, pantries, brew houses, milk houses, wash houses and butteries”. She was responsible for home manufacturing of clothing, candles, and foodstuffs. At harvest time she helped the menfolk gather the crops. She typically kept a vegetable garden, cared for the poultry, and milked the cows. The husband handled the other livestock and the dogs.
Mothers were responsible for the spiritual and civic well-being of their children. “Good” housewives raised “good” children who would become upstanding citizens in the community. Legal statutes and societal norms allowed for husbands to exert physical power over their wives, which could include violence: mental, physical and sexual abuse.
In tandem with the legal code, sexual ownership was the religious and moral code of the day, especially for women. In order to assure ownership of progeny, a man would need to assure that the “seed” that grew the child came from him.
From the Old English, a “cuckold” is the husband of an adulterous wife. In evolutionary biology, the term is also applied to males who are unwittingly investing parental effort in offspring that are not genetically their own.
The word cuckold derives from the cuckoo bird, alluding to its habit of laying its eggs in other birds’ nests.
Contemporarily, an abbreviation of cuckold, the term “cuck” has been used by the alt-right to attack the masculinity of an opponent.
To be the survivor of child sexual molestation is to have absorbed the idea that having been touched sexually by a male person meant to have been claimed by him and therefore owned. To be owned but never protected. To be owned, but secretly, never to be spoken of openly.
Each sexual interaction by choice coming into adulthood considered by her a violation of a contract signed in blood by herself as child in the dark. Without ceremony. She is already owned and soiled. Don’t they know she is already used goods? If she keeps it secret, she will fool them and trick them into keeping her.
But she’s a good girl, so she ruins it every time.
How can she ever be unowned? How far back in time does she need to go before resigning from the contract of law? Was there a time before ownership? What was it like in that world? How can she ever return there? Or how can she proceed there now?
“Time and weather wash all stones equally in the end.” – me
Rush to judgement.
Name of the game. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Power to the People. Power to the Pussy. Pussy Riot. Riot Grrls. Girls just want to have fun… damental rights. The nerve. Me too. Time’s Up. Kavanaugh, Epstein, Weinstein, Cosby. Catholics, Jews, Buddhists, Muslims. Nobody’s exempt. Nobody’s safe. Safety is for pussies. But they’re not. Shoulda been a safe cracker. But crackers aren’t safe either. Nor BIPOC. Nor White Sox. Fingers will find you, turn your insides out. Don’t finger the predator or find yourself singled out. Everybody’s shocked, but nobody’s guilty. There’s no accounting for the lack of accountability. Name of the game. The game is rigged. Rigor mortis has set in. It’s a set up. So get set up, or get got.
Left, right or middle… who owns you now? Who do you owe an explanation to? Me, myself, I. Find the eye in the storm. Stand there and know what you’re worth.
These roots go all the way to the core, under swamp water, bayou, gator teeth and corruption. No storm can take this everglade. It is everlasting. Evergreen. It’s creepers will climb, entangling all that falls. From it, life will always emerge. New. Ready to be broken again.
Rapture. Serenity. Sleep. Mundanity. The Laundry. Change.