Picture-perfect body carved by rigid thought:
aloof, controlled,
the roundness of my softer self
replaced by lines and angles
that reflect the holocaust within.
A perfect child! they said, and leered.
They beckoned me to come,
their arms in circles that enfolded me.
And smothering my anguished cries,
they touched me with their awful hands,
awakening my secret feelings long before their time.
I wanted them to see my heart.
I watched their arms, their hands,
as if my silent eyes could speak.
My cry went out: what do you want?
(But no one heard.)
I shut my eyes, my heart, against the tide.
But all I saw were greedy hands that fondled me.
My small-child’s body,
swallowed up by groping arms,
awoke to dread and guilt.
The circles of my rounder self were straightened out.
I boarded up the shattered pieces of my heart
to keep it safe, and gave away
my picture-perfect body to the holocaust.
1989
This poem tells of the time when childhood died.
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