the slamming of doors
the voice raised like a blindsiding dagger
then sunk to a wounding whisper
so there will BE no witnesses
the evil clatter, even of dishes
whatever innocuous thing is at hand
the broken wishes from childhood on.
dear God we try to not let it matter
but it leaves a blister on the soul.
sometimes it shatters worlds
how long must we withstand
the quiet insult hurled
the faint and damning praise
the teaming mockery
the hand in near violence raised
the carefully withheld praise
these secret wars for which we have no defense
that leave no bruises.
beyond relentless and yet
without a single footnote in our History text
while everything else is written, down
to each detail of a King's breakfast on a day
full of pageantry and cheers of multitudes.
the thought we rely on the most year after year
that Father, Son and Holy Ghost
have seen it all and heard it even more
down to the last nerve wrecking echo
of a modulated roar
and somewhere in the vault of Heaven
Ecce Homo woman and child
is it recorded down to the least blow
on the most mild
in letters of searing gold
all the days that we felt small
behind the door
behind the walls
at work or school or home or even in the street
before indifferent strangers
meeting our tiny Waterloos
at the hands of so many
two-faced fools.
mary angela douglas 29 january 2019
the voice raised like a blindsiding dagger
then sunk to a wounding whisper
so there will BE no witnesses
the evil clatter, even of dishes
whatever innocuous thing is at hand
the broken wishes from childhood on.
dear God we try to not let it matter
but it leaves a blister on the soul.
sometimes it shatters worlds
how long must we withstand
the quiet insult hurled
the faint and damning praise
the teaming mockery
the hand in near violence raised
the carefully withheld praise
these secret wars for which we have no defense
that leave no bruises.
beyond relentless and yet
without a single footnote in our History text
while everything else is written, down
to each detail of a King's breakfast on a day
full of pageantry and cheers of multitudes.
the thought we rely on the most year after year
that Father, Son and Holy Ghost
have seen it all and heard it even more
down to the last nerve wrecking echo
of a modulated roar
and somewhere in the vault of Heaven
Ecce Homo woman and child
is it recorded down to the least blow
on the most mild
in letters of searing gold
all the days that we felt small
behind the door
behind the walls
at work or school or home or even in the street
before indifferent strangers
meeting our tiny Waterloos
at the hands of so many
two-faced fools.
mary angela douglas 29 january 2019
