Waking Up Screaming

 

At first I thought I didn't know noir

having more of a blanc mange kind of heart,

but then I remembered I lived it once,

with an alcoholic con man

who burned down my store, which was 

also where I and my children lived.

We lost every stick we owned

in a single night.

He drank with criminals

and gangsters. I remember

one face, out the car window,

see it still, the dead steely eyes,

the jowls, the hard stare,

as money passed between them

for some malfeasance he wished

me to be an accessory to,

to cover his butt.

Noir: the day we were camping

poor, with the kids: no proper

warm camping equipment,

just a sagging tent that fell

on top of us when it rained,

the three year old slithering out

the tent flap, once,
in his sleep.

Note: Noir can be so cold.

He was angry because he hadn't

had a drink for too long, and
his life was shit. That night

malevolent forces attacked me in the tent.

The bedding puffed up, then pressed down,

hard, on me. I screamed and fought it off.

We got out and sat watching the dregs

of the campfire, and the dregs of my hope,

though there was more noir

to live before we were done.

But after I cast the darkness off,

there was blue sky again,

and a cute little house we rented

from my mother. There was a garden,

and leggy children laughing in the sun.

I wanted a song with every colour but black,

turned my face to the sky like a sunflower,

and never looked back.

for Desperate Poets: I Wake Up Screaming