I soared to new depths within these magnolia
spewed walls of confinement on brown plastic
chairs that burned liberation from the spirit.
We stared continuously through a blank canvas
of educational institution. Wall upon ceiling
Upon brown carpet squares.
And you were the devil.
Cloaked in Grandmas clothes.
Not my grandmother, but someone’s.
You drew air deep into your double breasted
lungs giving life to your outdated fancies of
corporal punishment.
You taught me only to fear those
words written
those thoughts driven
those ideas fit only for oblivion.
Where hung your creativity?
Lost in the sharp edge of a blunt fringe
cut and cut and cut year upon decade
upon the little girl trapped in the
grained memories of a war fought and survived.
Never a soul shone in your class
no spirits soared, no eyes feversihly
Burned beyond the dull ache of melancholy.
We were there,
but nobody knew where…
but nobody knew where.
You looked at me with the same disdain as others,
hollowed my name through pert lips everytime
you caught me smirking instead of working.
Till that day as rain fell and heat rose,
all around a collective sigh and dramatized yawns.
If ever a vortex existed
It was there, that day,
at the back of the class by the window
where the last rays afternoon of sun teased
goodbye like the ticking clock, freedom
draining its last dregs as words suddenly
sprung into life…
It all started here, her yellowing dress,
the cobwebs that consumed, love so great
pain greater still and tragic love
broken promises and tiny graves,
right here, this was the day.
Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words
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