By Sonia Faye
When I was 7, 8, maybe 9
Maybe younger,
When a day was forever,
I used to scribble tic tac toes
Next to the light switch.
My mom may have yelled at me.
My dad may have hit me.
I may not have been able to speak,
To cry, to scream, to say my sassy piece.
Silenced by a hand imprinted on my leg,
Or a louder voice,
Or expectation,
Disappointment,
Fear, frustration,
My own hand
Over my own
Loud
Mouth.
Mouth dumbed
Down,
Vocal cords stilled–
Zero vibration–
But my heart
Beating hard,
My thoughts,
Thrashing, deafening,
Throat pulled tight
Against a hard lump
Of unborn tears,
I reach for a pencil,
My weapon of choice,
#2 graphite megaphone,
And stage my tiny protest.
I stand close to the light switch
In my beautiful bedroom,
With the white canopy bed
And yellow-flowered bedspread,
Laying my head
Against cool white,
Pressing my pencil to dried paint,
Hearing the soothing shuck shuck
Of my heart
And my thoughts
And my pencil,
Ungagged triumvirate,
Making my quiet mark.
◊♦◊
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stock photo ID: 1544127980