Fear and shame forbade her to seek help.
She left my father for the fool
that beat her black and blue and various other hues.
The felonious ex-con, the jester junkie,
who tried to laugh away his multitude of sins –
all in the name of love: spelled l-u-s-t.
He traded presents for pain:
sick apology, a sign of insanity.
They were the same presents for pleasure:
pitiful trinkets and stolen bouquets.
He had no scratch.
He even spent her money on his addiction.
“I apologized,” he’d whine. “Now give me money for a fix,
or I teach you to be an obedient bitch.”
She suffered in silence
for the shame of leaving a gentle man
for the “bad boy” image –
the image made popular on the screen of the idiot box.
But the scripted image is not real life.
Her “bad boy” literally pissed his pants
when I informed him that castration
would be the present he received
if he ever hit my mother again… and he never did.
© JW Thomas