(WARNING: adult material, no swearing but reveals a distressing scene – see note at bottom)
Stretch Marks
Easy man, to step up onto that veranda.
Saw that sash window pushed up. Such a
stinking hot night. Someone wanting some air;
or maybe forgot to close it. Such a stinking
hot night. Not much dew on a night like this.
Don’t usually come this close to the inner
suburbs. Main road, is my route out of town.
Most yards have a fence; always
one or two that don’t. A low garden verge,
and then quick jump over that lawn and up
on that veranda like I was dancin’. Curtains
is drawn, though this, the only room with
the lights on. And again I see a flicker
of a shadow other side of those curtains.
Curtains I’m so close to now. And edge
a curtain corner back. I see a man fast
asleep on the far side of a bed. She; the
shadow I saw as I came ‘cross the lawn;
is stepping close to the dresser, her back
toward me, naked as the day she were
born. I could touch her, even as she turns
and I see stretch marks on her belly. Hot
nights do strange things to people.
Lookin’ at herself wearin’ nothin’
but a smile.
She’s turning now; my way. She’s seen
my hand and she screams. I’m gone from
there, over the lawn, the garden even;
almost before that front door opens.
I’m back on the main road by the time
the cops and their dog sniffed me out.
Benita H. Kape (c) 29.4.2021
Notes: “And now, for our prompt (optional, as always). This one is called “in the window.” Imagine a window looking into a place or onto a particular scene. It could be your childhood neighbor’s workshop, or a window looking into an alien spaceship. Maybe a window looking into a witch’s gingerbread cottage, or Lord Nelson’s cabin aboard the H.M.S. Victory. What do you see? What’s going on?”
Note:
I was crying by the time I finished writing this poem. I hesitated about bring it to the web. But poetry is about taking risks. And I took the risk.
A beautiful telling of a traumatic event. You took ugliness and depravity in a man and turned it into a heart-rending poem about violation. Wonderful writing! xoxo Ingrid
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Thanks Ingrid. I did a Dance Russe (WCW) version of this poem and a couple of years back posted it to Al Felreis at ModPo who read it in on one of the weekly webcasts Sep/Nov. I’ll never forget seeing that hand. He was a Fijian man. Pat, my late husband, had gone to bed early and forgotten the window open. I’d stayed up late sewing clothes for the children. I sewed all their clothes in those days, even made lined short trousers for John.
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A beautiful telling of a traumatic event. You took ugliness and depravity in a man and turned it into a heart-rending poem about violation. Wonderful writing! xoxo Ingrid
LikeLiked by 1 person