Portrait of the Poet, Eight Years Old

 

My hair, anathema,
no bangs, no style, limp, stringy,
rarely curled and never tamed,
setting me up for a lifetime
of ungovernable hair;
my eyes, round, blue, questioning,
looking away, like a deer's, when observed,
trying not to take up too much space.
Children should be seen and not heard.
My smile, hesitant, waiting
for the other shoe to drop.

I remember that dress; it was scratchy
on the backs of my legs, and it
was cut down from an adult dress to fit me,
since there was no money for store bought things.

What my father didn't know was
I feared the bumps and crashes in the night,
feared for my mother.
He never remembered, the next day,
what happened when he drank
to blackout.

What my mother didn't know was
I never felt safe,
and wanted her
to take me away.