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Look Gretchen Clark |
Look there used to be a candy bar i liked as a kid Look was its name came in a red wrapper chewy nougat, nuts a molasses flavor covered in dark chocolate sweet crunchy yummy i loved this Look but there was another type of Look in my childhood that i didn't save quarters for didn't run into the drug store after this one wasn't a treat wasn't sugary-sweet this Look was fed without wanting to me from my mother. in 1969 she had 3 teenagers was starting to inhale freedom when some thing rooted itself inside her womb symptoms she thought where the start of menopause turned out to be the beginning of me a blonde lock a blue-eyed prison those multi-colored stripes on my dress the one I loved to twirl around in didn't say pretty rainbow to her only said jail that's my crime making her serve more time. i make her pay with my colic my tantrums that involve teeth marks clumps of pulled out hair on the floor flaming hot cheeks of anger, my maddening way I eat bacon methodically separating the fat from the thin red rivers of meat, my perfect vision of how I want my hair making her style it over and over until the ponytails are even the part arrow straight how I waste twelve or more pieces of paper because in the upper right-hand corner my name absolutely must be level that girl i can understand deserved a Look. but what about when the Look came out with no reason no provocation of juvenile insanity to make it appear there it is at breakfast hovering over my eggs or after school when I get in the Chrysler and she drives off with her stone face and mouth in a sad clown down turn or sitting on my father's lap the reading done the start of tickling, giggling fun in the corner ironing shirts sewing my skirt hem she throws a dark expression my way getting a snack strawberry milk the glass of pink slips out of my small hands shatters to the ground the dark Look comes into the kitchen casts a threatening shadow over me doesn't hear sorry or accident only sees mess some thing to clean-up. that girl didn't understand that kind of anger thrown her way that girl gets nervous, anxious of anything, everything gets a ding, deep inside a bruise blooms purple-blue on her heart that girl memorizes the words of black text written all over her mother's face that girl becomes a woman that marries gets pregnant has a baby falls into depression barely hangs on with a newborn to care for a tiny daughter looking up & into her own mother's sad dark expression. i go to therapy tuesdays smell of stale coffee in the air and minutes ticking off on an egg time I crack open share the language i learned to understand from my mother of the body, the face the unsaid that said so much i wish for a code long for a legend to understand the Look a saved santa letter found in a plastic bin in my closet provides a sad commentary begins i know i haven't been good continues not deserving of a new stretch armstrong blue holly hobby dress or a captain and tennille record what i hear between the faded lines is a phantom-the little girl me whispering what she really wants isn't an easy bake oven but to be deserving of her Love. dusty photo albums open up say something different captured in snap shots, again the unspoken speaks to me her face turned to mine side view of a smile half of a rising sun colored red another one her hand holding mine we walk along the beach left to her right pearl to oyster then this picture of the lake with white ducks we're both in coats of blue she kneels behind me her arms across my body a fence of flesh trying to keep me safe. Look a she-wolf in a gray wool sweater in my own hall i display a picture of me/the wolf & my little girls cheek-to-cheek all big-eyed and smiling happiness captured nailed to the wall end of story not at all tell the truth this is the image i we all want think believe childhood/motherhood is about but its only half the recipe there are these beautiful true pink frosting teddy bear teacup party lollipop butterfly cookie green grass moments but i also know other moments are developing coming into focus in the dark rooms of my children's subconscious that will surface later, proof of when i failed them what will stick? will it be when i screamed fuck around their innocent ears or when i slammed a palm down hard on a kitchen counter and yelled how sick i am of being their 24/7 servant or when i couldn't hide the boredom of little kid world? hurt disappoint sadness it will rise up i will be accountable i know because i'm on the other side now & its not about easy digestion mothering as simple sugar there is no aisle in the store to buy a brightly wrapped Mother someone that is 100% good for you goes down easy and her only conceivable crime is overflowing sweetness Look maybe this mother/child thing is supposed to have some black, some bad added in what cake tastes good/what life is interesting without a little/without a little salt vanilla & baking soda/hurt tears & let down things that leave a mouth/things that leave a wound bitter eaten alone/bitter licked alone only enrich/only enrich when mixed in/when mixed in with the delicious/with the dark all together is altogether beautifulbitterlovelysweetpain Gretchen Clark [Return to Psychopoetica home page] ©The contents of this page are copyright protected.
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