(1)
Navy whites, stomach taut, like he sucked it in and held his breath,
cigarettes rolled up in the cuff
of his t-shirt, over his bulge of muscles,
next to the washing machine, behind
me washing dishes at the sink,
“You took it, didn’t you?”
The little book he’d given my younger sister.
“Here,” he’d said, “This is for my good girl.”
A week later, tossed on her dresser; that moment I imagined him
saying those words to me, I took a pencil and wrote my name on the inside
page.
Now, he showed me his belt, its elastic, the metal tip, how he could
make it snap so it would really sting,
told me to turn around and wash those dishes.
When he snapped it across the washing machine, I didn’t jump held tight
to a
slippery glass, not to drop it. “You stole it, didn’t you?” I
turned
to answer. He said, “Turn back around and wash those dishes.”
“You stole it, didn’t you?” “No,” I
braced myself. But
the belt didn’t come, and I took a breath, a short breath, still it
didn’t come.
I washed a glass, breathed again then
it came
not ready.
Washing cups, washing plates, the whole rest of the house silent,
except Ray, thumping the belt, not thumping the belt, him breathing, pausing,
me holding
my breath, breathing, short breaths, trying to hear him about to move.
The belt surprised me again
again,
again
snapped across my back, my legs
more plates, pots, pans,
“Did you steal it?” No
silverware, “Did you?” no, no, no, no
washed, then dried them all. Washed the stove, the counters, wiped out the
dishpan, scoured the sink.
No, I didn’t, wouldn’t
ever
admit
that moment wanting.
(2)
The retarded girl – she seemed to be –
barely talked
said yes and no when her parents yelled
because the retarded girl never did anything right.
They left the younger sister in charge
told her how to handle things when they were gone
even though she was the younger sister, even though
the older sister stood close by listening
with her eyelids pressed tight closed together,
and
her tan brown arms swung and hit
then bounced off her tanned brown thighs, poking
out skinny from her shorts.
That backward girl always walked outside her body.
She moved down the sidewalk, saw me,
came close
all her body wrong,
lifted the heel of her foot, set it down,
touched her cheek with her fingers, patted
it with her stretched out fingers
reached the arm out
fingers stretching to me
too shy to touch.
Just to hurt her
“Stupid, stupid,” I whispered. “You’re stupid.”
She heard me, like I meant her to.
Like one voice added to a choir is
fainter than a voice
out of stillness
her face barely registered hurt, or the weight
of the arm dropping.
The barely hurt spread through me
through my arms
made them heavy and tired, so
I knew
who I’d wanted to hurt.
I wanted to comfort but she wouldn’t let me.
She opened her mouth, but she didn’t speak.
She patted her bottom lip on her top lip.
She closed her eyes, then opened them in slits
to the sidewalk. Never looked at me
walked away, across the yard.
She stepped on the grass, so lightly
it was like she didn’t even
step
on the grass.
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