Under the guise of nonchalance,
she quickly resets her bones,
stitches her gaping wounds
and paints a smile on her
face.
It is imperative he sees her
smile.
That smile,
that smile of gratitude, of humility,
that smile of acceptance,
that smile of knowing her place
in his world.
that tiny space, forever
closing in.
She sets the table.
(He will be home soon.)
(He is home now.)
She plates the dinner; it
must be set so precisely.
The meat from nine to three
o’clock,
the potatoes, mashed (absolutely
no lumps)
milked and buttered at three
to six
and the rest of time filled
with peas
(garden) buttered and counted
–
their numbers must be even,
God they must be even!
The gravy, shimmering with meat juices,
just the right thickness
fills two thirds of the boat.
(Perfect she thinks and feels
the excitement the joy of success,
of doing the right things for
her man).
(He will be pleased; of this
she is (almost) certain...)
He sits, glares at her, his
mouth a snarl,
her smile momentarily drops
but she quickly resets it;
nervous now, hands shaking, chest
near imploding…
she waits…
He trawls the plate with his
fork,
searching for desired imperfections…
he is counting the peas,
looks up with that look in his eyes
and his fists hammer down on
the table.
(God the pea count is wrong,
the pea count is wrong, the pea count is wrong!)
He explodes in a fury, his
fists battle her body
and battered and bruised she
drops to the floor.
YOU’RE FECKING USELESS! (he
screeches),
slapping that smile off her face,
kicking her foetal-curled body,
and he turns on his feet,
shouts obscenities, storms out of the room,
slamming the door behind him. She cries…
She composes herself, resets
her bones,
stitches her wounds, paints
on her smile,
huddles in her tiny space,
her ever so tiny space,
disappearing (as she is)
in ever decreasing circles…
Anna :o]
Written for https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/11/weekly-scribblings-44-eye-of-hurricane.html – cheers for the prompt Rommy!
(I can't figure out how to do links on New Blogger so will have to try and get my head round it...)
Image (the nearest I could
find): Courtesy of Flickr Creative
Commons - 'Photo
© Acabashi' ‘Steak and ale pie at Sainsbury's Low Hall, Chingford,
10 comments:
Amazing depiction of living with a psychopath.... I will read this poem a few times...Excellent work
With each line my anxiety increased ~~ as did hers. A stunning poem ....
I agree with Helen.
Wow! A brilliant depiction. I only wish it wasn't so widely true.
I can feel her fear so deeply, the same goes for her sense of survival. Some might think her a coward, might even call her weak. But they would be wrong. It takes a special kind of soul to survive that hell. And for some reason, maybe because she has find a place to be herself (regardless of how small it is), I feel that she might be able to liberate herself. Someone who has the strength to keep a monster like that from ripping her head off also has the strength to claim her freedom.
Your poem manages to convey such a terrible issue with much dignity - it is sad how our spaces become smaller and smaller..and we may well accept it rather than breaking out
That is so vivid. You quickly realise what is coming and you hope it won't. The tension is amazing.
The way you recounted the details was masterfully done. You created the tight and brittle tension and had the reader steeling themselves for the blow we knew was coming from the start. Horrifyingly real.
This is excellent, Anna! I felt the tension in my bones.
Believable...though on reflection, are maniacs like him sober enough to count their peas?! Or is it part of the plot that he's not actually counting the peas but just picking a fight?
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