Paris © 1986 Frida Blumenberg

 
.................................
Some Incidents
.................................

i.

When I told the boss that a co-worker had been slipping his arm around me, peeking down my shirt, calling me at home, she remembered to tell me he got off a sexual assault charge last year.

ii.

Studied by day, waitressed nights. Stale, wrinkled men dropped dimes when I let them footsy as I unloaded beer. Tips doubled if I kept my mouth shut when they touched my ass.

iii.

For hours they emptied bottles, filled kitchen and ashtrays, blocked the only path to the bathroom. Raised voices argued politics, slurred jokes. I squirmed through hot bodies, exhaling excuse me's. Someone noticed my budding breasts, whispered zoobers, and pinched. Next time I squatted over the basement sewer hole.

iv.

He smelled of grease and sweat and oranges. Scooped me onto his lap, promised me shiny coins if I would kiss him. His tongue shivered my lips. I gave the quarter to my mom.

 
.................................
A Favour
.................................

(for A)

Sister, I can share with you
little memories from those numb months
after she left, when Dad directed tasks
to produce a house in order and I played
cook and caregiver, feeding you
what I thought you needed.

You were a child, in grade school,
and I was old enough to drop
university and friends for a blue velour robe
to comfort me day after day,
until the zipper broke and the seat shone
like the stove I polished each Saturday.

Now you are woman, a mother like me
and we discuss her courage - her leaving
before you got home from school,
escaping good-byes, mundane
motherhood: bruised knees and egos,
first bra, first date.
Just drove into a dream.

You say, "It's true, it's so true,"
and I know you're sincere, promising
as always, you'll never tell. You know
she never understands, will never
see our pain, our need
to name and let go. She'll warp it
into resentment, call us cruel
for dredging up the past, switch on
self-pity, wiping tears, and leave us again
to wonder what we've done wrong.

Maybe she's done us a favour.

.................................
Bernadette L. Wagner
.................................

 
Copyright © Bernadette L. Wagner
July 1997

neon night sky
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