They spill all the memories, in a way that they have not done before: wide-open with a touch of that jail house humor that prevents real emotions. They relate the events of their lives like a movie from a distance. No one is allowed to cry. Not them. Not I. One drop of tears and we would never stop. The oceans would not hold all the tears we have to cry.
I was gang-raped by six men, says one
My mother's boyfriend pushed my face into a pot of spaghetti.
I had a circular bruise for weeks, says another.
I woke up naked in the middle of the city.
I stole my grandmother's jewelry for dope.
I don't know who has my children.
Any response would be cheap and thin:
Oh, I'm sorry
Gee that must have hurt.
Are you better now?
Look up and be strong.
God is right around the corner
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
How is it that you decided to continue living?
My, doesn't God work in mysterious ways?
It's a test
It's your destiny
In 50 years it won't matter
No, rather than respond,
I sit in my sagacity
like a grey post
Hearing between the breaths --
mine and theirs --
Help me. Help me. Help me.
And when they are done,
I peddle away in my car,
To my home,
To my flannel sheets,
Where I cocoon myself
and weep and weep and weep.
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