Desideratum …

My own father never showed me

the warmth of embrace, nor gave me cradles

to rock away my tears.  He showed me rawhide


on my back side, saying I got what I deserved.   No

warm protection from dark phantasms which terrified

my small trembling self… which would have fit


snuggly in his arms.  No daddy to cry out for

when my nightmares paralyzed me in my

bed, while between my legs burned like ripping.  Instead,


I was told to go to Sacred Heart to the small room

with a wicker screen and a tiny door which slides open

and closed, behind which a man waits in silence obscured


by woven slivers much like the one which bore

their way into my bottom when being told to be

a good girl.  He was to absolve me


of my sins. Bless me father for I have


sinned, it has over thirty years since my last

confession.  When I last confessed, it was my first

confession, and I told you about a blue


gumball I slipped out of the jar next to the penny

candy to glide into my cheeks like a greedy little

squirrel.  That was my first sin.  You told me to say


5 Our Father’s and 10 Hail Mary’s and that my sins would be

forgiven.  What you can never grant me is

the gift of forgetting.  Forgive me for how I did


not protect the things that made me like Mary

Mother of God.  I have sinned against myself

by not fighting hard enough for what


my body possesses.  My wish is to be freed of this

burden of the brain, heaviness in the heart.  Father, my father

just neglected me without doing a thing when a man


who commanded  me call him Daddy forced my hand,

my head torn at his zipper.  I swear, Father, I tried

to resist but my strength failith that day when small


insignificant me needed it most.  I screamed NO,


ME! Instead of stopping, he covered my mouth pushing


my tiny body too close to the boiler where my face blazed of searing

heat from the black coal burning.  I prayed to your God.  I begged

for your Jesus to let me be a lamb. Only He could carry me


away—just like the in the picture painted on the ceiling of Saint

Paul’s Cathedral where we went to High Mass, and I loved

it.  That was when they spoke in the secret language


which is no longer spoken. The dead language.  No one

answered.  I was only given ripping flesh, blood in my Wonder

Woman Underoos.  I can’t remember how many times I begged


your God to take me to sing with the terrible

angels who show me no mercy.  So I write

my own Novenas now, because yours never fucking worked.  Never


worked.  The rosaries all broke from zealous rocking and shaking

while repeating words in repetition taught me that I can at least command

the Voice to say the right words, even if I’m mute to the whole


fucking universe.  I’ve learned from years of crafting words

as beautiful swords to protect me that some words are too short for men

to understand.  Honest to Jesus, I did not ask for it, even though


my own father would tell me so

after he bruised my kidney. You got what

you deserved are the words he’d shoot me with


like a Marine facing a yellow face, while I cried

in pain, unable to breathe.  Even now, Father, my own

father publically shames me on the Eve before Baby


Jesus is born.  Father, my father screamed, “You will die

sad and lonely,” when he saw me

in the grocery store.  I carried my cross


in the form of a grocery cart filled with food I couldn’t afford

which I would never be able to cook. Father, I know now that

I know nothing of your God, because your myth is fable perverted


through the mind far less than

a Poet.  I am the only one here

who knows what God is.


1 Comment

  1. A very powerful and poignant poem.

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