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On
Being Five
I''m home from school.
Wait! Listen first at the
door.
She's not in the kitchen
she's on the top floor!
In
a bedroom shared
by three little girls,
she's bent over a
bureau,
I see her grey curls.
Act I begins now
I
have the first line,
"Please, what are you doing?
Those
things are all mine!"
This is her cue
to glance
up and say,
"You're going to the orphanage
get out of
my way!"
I know all my lines -
play it timid, not
strong
"But what have I done today?
What have I done
wrong?"
"You know goddam well,
you fucking
little whore!
And stop that sniveling
or you'll get
something to really cry for!"
The drama
continues.
The paper bag fills
with my few poor
possessions
and all of her ills.
It's time to start
begging,
the part I abhor!
"Please, Mommy,
please!"
As I edge toward the door.
She turns and
she glares
with pure hate in her eyes.
It's a look that I
wish
She could just once disguise.
She's up and she's
turning,
this Queen wasp in her hive;
I take two steps
backward
the tableau comes alive.
I run for the
stairs
but my hair is too long
she reaches and grabs
it!
Her hands are so strong!
I'm turned and I'm
dragged -
I don't utter a peep.
We've done this
before,
and those stairs are so steep.
I cry out as my
head
hits every stair;
when we reach the bottom
I'm not
unaware
of what is to come now
(I know my part well)
I
lie on my back -
watch her fury swell.
On top of the
fridge
is my dead grandfather's strop.
It's now in her
hands
and I know she won't stop.
The leather's not
good enough.
She turns it around.
Down comes the metal
ring -
I can tell by the sound.
She beats me all
over,
my arms cover my face.
She swings it faster and
faster
as though it were a race.
I can't hold back
longer -
I scream and I cry!
I can't catch my breath,
I
can't even try.
She's exhausted herself now
the
strop's thrown to one side.
I crawl to a corner.
I just
want to hide.
Act II begins now,
my father comes
home.
I yell, "Daddy please help me!
Make her leave
me alone!"
He looks at my mother
then looks at
me.
He sits at the table.
She pours his coffee.
After
several more minutes
she look round the room.
She acts
kind of different -
less fury, more gloom.
"Take
deep breaths" she tells me -
"Just try to
relax."
She reaches to touch me,
her hands feel like
wax.
She lifts me up easily,
I'm only five, after
all.
and carries me to the rocking chair
Set next to the
wall.
She rocks me and sings
the three-song
medley
that she always uses
to hush a crying baby.
She
tells me she loves me
and it sounds almost true.
but why
can't she love me
the way most mothers do?
I'm almost
done crying.
Her duty's complete.
"Now go clean up
your bedroom,
then come down to eat.
The welts and the
bruises
will be hidden from view.
Not that anyone'd
care
If anyone knew.
A child is crying.
Quick! Run
to see!
Oh, don't bother
It's only me.
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