Thread: Baking with Mother

She kneads the dough, casts of her hands in the mound
She pounds into flour on the sideboard, shapes it,
Presses it, pushes out the air. You pressed me. Shaped me;
the misshapen, half risen adult that is me.
She wasn’t there.
I watch her now, taking care with the final touch, a gentle pat;
She dusts it lightly. You must go.
I wish I had said it then.
She never speaks. I had told her all about you.
She kneads the dough.
I watch in silence. She did too; blinded.
Shame; I learnt so. Dumbfounded: just utter no!
I wish I had.
Hiding under covers every night,
Eiderdown duvet wrapped tight
Around my rigid body. I prayed.
She did too. Kneeling in the pew. Pious, full of holiness;
Gaping soul.
And I prayed, again.
The footsneak in the hall would be delayed.
You, slithering in silence, round my downy contours,
You’ll do for practice; you’re nothing but a whore;
The two headed snake hissing in my ear,
Feeding on my innocence and fear;
Clawing, ignoring pleas. I prayed
For god’s only son to come to my aid
For Jesus loves us all the same
She said so. I believed, used to smile
At happy things; they’d shape my childhood; memories.
I’m not shaped so. Memories grew darker, like my moods.
Like the shadow at my bedroom door. Why for?
She kneads the dough.
I don’t need either of you, but still care.
She says nothing about it, never has, just dull chitchat,
but she can see it in my eyes.
I utter nothing, there’s no despise, but wish I could say
It hasn’t gone away; it’s still here, in my head
She bakes me bread.

wow beautifully made, you did a great job keep up the good work

Dear Lord, Patricia, I pray this is fiction. I am too moved to be witty and such at the moment, although I would like to say my mind is screaming. Your pen is blessed, love, this is another exceptionally well wrought piece, that has me too upset to actually cite the beauty in it. I'll return to do that, need to calm myself first or all I'll do is rant. One thing that slowed me, no cap in God, although I do believe that was intentional. I'll be back.

Best,
Lisa

Patricia, I've been there. I know, brave sister. A stunning poem in the sense that it's alarming and then so finely written. And about Jesus. I'd pretend he was in bed with me to protect me. The following made me feel very close to you. The whole of it did.

I prayed
For god’s only son to come to my aid
For Jesus loves us all the same

When I was writing my memoir (shelved for now) I was stumped, numb as to handle one of the "scenes". My uncle, my best friend and a writer actually wrote it for me. The feel of it so true. It was then I knew that he too had been a victim.

OK. Now I take a deep breath and try...

You're metaphor is absolutely brilliant! The bread, molding, molding of a young person.

Here, "the half risen adult", sums up how victims can become stunted in many respects..

Presses it, pushes out the air. You pressed me. Shaped me;
the misshapen, half risen adult that is me.

You say it all, here. The "Silent Knower". Who is hated, judged more? She or the devil in the night? Trapped in a house where one is betrayed by both.

She says nothing about it, never has, just dull chitchat,
but she can see it in my eyes.

Oh, Patricia. This is so difficult. I want to highlight all the spectacular and go on about it, giving you excellent critique, objectively. I hope someone will come around and give you more professional feedback. But this poem of yours. It's also my story put to words beyond my capability, strength. I was not without tears reading.

You write about the very ugly with such beauty.

Yours, in surviving, Laurie

Such an emotional and tragic narrative.

If I'd written this, I'd be damned proud. S'all I have to say- it's not constructive or anything but I don't think I can offer you anything, it's perfect as it is.

Thanks so much for the feedback everyone, you are all so encouraging and I am really glad I joined this forum.

I truly appreciate your taking the time to read my stuff.

Thank you again.

Saucerful

A very moving piece, Saucerful. It's tragic and inspires pity, but you present it in a way that doesn't say 'poor me' which makes it more powerful.