Lying In Bed At Night
If
you live with a madman you cancel dinner with friends with thinly veiled
excuses
If
you live with a madman you sit on your bed at night listening to the thud of
books crashing against the wall in the next room
When
you tell your frightened three year old you will protect him your stomach turns
over
And
you no longer recognize the shy student with bedroom eyes you once thought you
knew
If
you live with a madman you find your things in a garbage bag in front of the
door
If
you live with a madman you hide your mother's jewelry
If
you live with a madman you cry into your sleeping son's hair at night
If
you live with a madman you take care not to stir his rage, inflame his fury
If
you live with a madman you swallow hard
and bite your tongue
If
you live with a madman you plan your escape, pray for deliverance and wonder
what you have done to provoke the wrath
If
you live with a madman you lie still in your bed at night when his footsteps
creep along the floors, never knowing what may come of his nighttime wandering
If
you live with a madman you know you will need to disappear, slip away
stealthily without saying good-bye to friends
If
you live with a madman you stuff the pain back down, hoping it will end,
betting that you can be strong and take it and come out on top
Unaffected
This is another intense poem, Lisa. Who can read it without also sharing that fear? The job of the writer is to "not look away from the difficult moment" and you do that here, reporting the hard truth of this living situation with details that make it real. If I would advise anything, it might be that in future drafts you can move away from some of the anaphora--maybe not so many repeats of "If you live" and lastly, while I have no doubt this person was a "madman" that word, when the reader doesn't really know this person feels too laden, somehow, perhaps too telling. I hope this helps--
ReplyDelete