Murderer

 
I lived in a house
painted over with thick coats of bitterness and bile
the grand dame’s face was coiled with uncaged anger
took me a long, long time to understand why
I only knew the phrase
spare the rod, spoil the child
I was only fourteen
but at fourteen I was older than they thought
my parents
quiet father (severely hen-pecked)
dominating mother who carried a big stick
and used it
my parents
husband and wife
who had hidden so many things from each other
there was nothing left for them to say
my mother was a murderer
if you’ve never wandered along at the site
of a freshly committed murder
you don’t really know the feeling of restless unease
she murdered my heart
the scratches she’d left on my face have faded
the cuts on my back and legs have healed
but the stake she’d driven through my heart is still there

©January 12, 2016 / Jerry Pat Bolton