Across from me she wears her eyes
a calmer blue than blue that speaks
a clean blade that reflexively
takes care of everything in the way;
she talks a quiet trusting talk,
I hear the generations mildew
by the wayside when she lets the layers
slip and there before me is a better family
portrait than before, a child of three
when I was twenty-one. Now she is
beautiful and knowing, and I cannot help
my awe at her escape from branding
deep into the psyche all the scars of
either/or mentality, those bedfellows
we shared, I cannot help the humbling feeling
that protection I was given and resented
was protection, nonetheless, that I was loved
with layers around me, that I was kept safe,
if not from hurt, at least,
from being broken to the point
of never being wanted anymore,
but she is stronger, having been
taken by surprise, but more than that,
betrayed, by people who would rather
brush away the crumbs, the shells,
the friendly fire itself, and say
it never happened, excuse
manchild of forty-some for scarring
this girl of fourteen who should have after all
acquired the faculty of forgetting by this time,
but she is sharp as the division between
health and every tired commitment to degrade,
for one can always count on degradation
to be right, if not now, later, when
amnesia starts the slow progression
of contagion, and the bonds that make no sense
between those bludgeoned in common
far transcend the bonds between oneself
and one's own flesh,
the child who never knew her youth,
who had to find it later on, when everything
around her might be safe, and she could hope
if not believe, that someone she had found
might be a father or a safer uncle
than she had, and people might be taught
to know the truth and even speak it.
sheila e. murphy
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