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(Inspired by "The Old Grave-Stone") I was the child who sat in the corner, mouth shut and ears open, to hear the secrets the old ones told. Just among themselves (they thought) they spoke of cheating husbands, aborted pregnancies, beatings received and given, alcoholism across the generations, forced sex (never "rape," which happened only to bad girls)... I am the keeper of all these stories, the keyholder for the skeleton closet. I visit their graves in the moonlight, imagine them pleading with me to forget. Or did they know I was there all along, and tell their stories anyway so that someone would remember?
Toggle Commented Oct 10, 2013 on Autumn Poetry Challenge: Day 3 at Myth & Moor
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I love this!
Toggle Commented Oct 10, 2013 on Autumn Poetry Challenge: Day 3 at Myth & Moor
1 reply
"Let down your hair," he said, and began pulling hairpins. My golden hair--thank you, Lady Clairol-- fell halfway down my back. "I will save you," he said, and took my virginity. (So we said, back then. Truth to tell, I gave it most willingly.) "Now you are mine," he said. "I don't think so," I said, stepped upon his back, took his old car, and rode off to my freedom.
Toggle Commented Oct 9, 2013 on Autumn Poetry Challenge: Day 2 at Myth & Moor
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I agree with you about Sinatra--my mother was from the "Oooooh, Frankie!" generation, but I never understood the attraction to the man or his singing. On gangsters: Are there films or TV shows (I don't know, because I don't follow the gangster genre) in which minority gangsters are romanticized the way white gangsters are in the ones you discuss? Gangsters are gangsters, after all. And for that matter, why are Americans, well, terrified of terrorists but so fascinated by organized crime (at least the white variety)?
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May 6, 2013