4-point crucifixion

I am no stranger to pain, said she
when the first wound was made, a sharp
incision to the gut, there where it hurts,
followed by a booted kick, a one-two
to the upper ribs, here’s where the telling
gets much harder, the breath fails you,
you remember
every diaper, rash, baby gurgle, toothless smile,
the sweet and sour breast-milk runny shit
on your best Salvation-army-special blouse,
the year you went to three rehearsals, one dress,
and four performances, the teachers at the school
who raved about the promise and despaired
about the steadfast failure to perform
and all the times of no responses to the letters,
phone calls, emails, gifts and birthdays,
and other days forgotten but not lost,
there is a crazy person somewhere deep inside
who’s yearning to be free
who says, it’s what you did, or what
you didn't do, whatever, too much love
or too much what they call it now, the co-dependence
of the wounded in remission or recovery…

the second one came first in time of day;
the one I never pleased, was never young or beautiful
or rich enough for, I haven’t ever figured what the lack
or failure was, but everyone had better mothers,
better friends, no matter what the issue was,
sometimes you have to tell yourself the fight is over
at the start; I never learned to do that, kept fighting on
to bitter end; this one will have the hardest time
when time comes to an end because at heart he always yearned
for what I did not have, or what he thought I should have had,
and coming back from his occasion one year later
having heard him tell the new adopted mother
how much he owes and telling mine, the one who never
ever came to graduations, stopped abuse when it was real
and dark and painful or made the pain stop once,
the one I wrote to for his sake, because she hurt him
and I could not bear to see him hurt, she also
has he thanked that time and told her oh how much
it was that she had done, that she had meant,
while I sat somewhere on a frozen seat aware
of how much I had not ... could not... would not...
so no, it was not a surprise that money was an object
when he was so near, I traveled far on more than one
occasion, bestowed what I could ill afford but no,
it was not a surprise…

the third one’s been a time in coming, the stabs
have been more frequent in the year gone past,
when closer as to miles, I have been shed as she
who got to talk and hear the hopes and prayers,
ongoing attempts to heal a mind and heart
ravaged by pain, by dread disease, by harsh
addiction, willing or not; I say again, though
painful yet, it was not unexpected but I did not buck
the feint; that seems to be what one will do
when brought together by blood, as blood will do,
one stands and takes it, grins and bears it,
and all the sad clichés of love and pain
and life and death

the fourth one I suspected for a while;
we drove just before Christmas in the middle
of a storm and I had a full-blown panic fit,
I yelled and screamed and sobbed and hit
my fists against the steering wheel,
the post-traumatic stress, a well-known friend
from childhood, exile, life, abuse, an accident
or two, full blown, it is not lost, oh no,
it’s never lost; now that I do the work
of hearing and interpreting for victims
of abuse and torture it's clear that pain
lives on despite the best-made promises
to forget; and so on to the birthday
when we drove all day to be there at the birth
of a new life; we stayed in a hotel,
ate from a blender fruit and prayed, at least
I prayed for safe delivery, for an ease
of pain, we were the first to see the babe’s
new frowns, to hear his cries, but I should not
have been amazed, there has despite the years
of driving through the rain and snow been
an estrangement, so when the partner opened
the freezer compartment and screamed that I was not
to cook again, the food all packed in the containers
which she had not thrown away, but kept,
a mute but saddest testimony to an ill-spent love
that is not what is sought or wanted,
why is it I have never understood the lesson
to be learned, whatever it was…
I offered money, an airplane ticket, all I wanted
was to share my special day and I suspected
when my emails went unanswered, and the calls
I made to both the lines that this one would be hardest yet…

it is because as women we both know the pain of birth,
the wonder of the warmth of baby’s breath upon the breast,
the marvel of a love so strong it feels as though your heart
will burst and that is what the last stab wound, most painful
to a weakened heart, felt; sharp as the sharpest knife
turning upon the wound, already opened; I sobbed
and later on I screamed, forswore my best allegiances
and swore to mourn them as the women and the men
who’ve seen their dearest ones put down by evil or by time
or fate or illness or decree; perhaps it is as my new love
asserts; our system, so corrupt, corrupts all love,
smashes the hearts of all who live, it's easy to believe
it's these our times, I wonder wonder wonder if the answer
is that simple, the later plays of Shakespeare show the way
that love can fester in the heart, Regan and Goneril,
the others written and performed, I am here to tell you
that the pain is most exquisite, I will survive
these wounds and let them not be fatal; more grist
for mills that work all day; I do not know quite what will help;
the newest meditation or the longest psychotherapy.

I will survive, will sing again, will write
of orchids and their blooms, will hold others’ grandchildren
and perhaps will find redemption in the end.