This was the first poem that I wrote that really resonated with me. I would practice reading it out loud most of the time before readings. When I first wrote it I read it aloud about ten times. I was so thrilled! Sixteen years later I recognize its importance but time does heal. I don't feel as intimate with the poem. It was published twice by the Feminist Broadcast Quarterly. I would like to thank editor Mimi Yahn for that pleasure!
Spoon Fed Our Daily Dose of Violence
You may wonder but may not care about my primal deep weep.
Or my cautious unspeaking nature.
Sure the words can be spelled or spilled upon the page but when real things are said I stutter.
I feel people shy and not so afraid of death.
I am ever-ready and prepared to roll with the punches.
Everytime I was struck part of me died.
Everytime I was a witness part of me shied.
So I wound myself tight into a tiny fetal ball for safety's sake.
I was fed death on my yo-yo string.
It was death in my playdoh.
Death is the soap my parents used on their large capably violent hands.
Death was always a welcome dinner guest in our house.
I used to whisper "take me away" to that star I was wishing on.
And when I cried I felt the pain wash my veins like a drug or a slug.
As I have come to this life I know I would try anything.
Anything not so close to death.
The anything I will try is living and an unwinding of my fetal position.
