‘My husband beats me,’ she murmured,
eyes downcast, to Bill in reply to his praise
of her gentle beauty. Perhaps she thought
to reject an advance? I never saw a mark
on her delicate face, nor a bruise
on her dainty arm, and she didn’t move
like one with hidden injuries; she was lithe.
Nor did she, later, reject his advances.
I wasn’t with him on that trip. But I knew.
Cross-posted to my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, where it now also forms part of my 'Remembering Bali' series.
[Poem #89]
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
Comments from original posting:
ReplyDeletePearl 19 February 2011 at 14:03
hm, complex encounter.
all don't respond the same way to beating i suppose and to play with others may have been a way of reclaiming ownership, territory of herself.
Rosemary Nissen-Wade 20 March 2011 at 14:55
It's too hard to know now, so long after. I myself was a different person then, in different circumstances, and my reactions and perceptions different too from what they'd be now.
jen revved 17 November 2011 at 16:05
So glad to have found you, Rosemary-- this is lovely-- I've been perusing your blogs-- beautiful work! Thank you for your wonderful comment today! xxxj