One Too Many

This was originally written for the Amnesty International, Human Rights campaign. I have uploaded a second poem ("Lucky Escape" ) written for the same contest.

***

Red spurting, splattering the wall
The bruise will come later
But for now she holds her cheek
And pushes me behind her
Out of the room, not to watch.

I sit on the stairs, listening:
Another thud, I know the sound
Of chair scraping as limp body
Hits it, scraping backwards,
To hit the cupboards.

One day I will snap and fly in there,
Grab those big, drunk hands,
Rip them off her and push him
Backward against the counter.
Warn him off.

But for now I sit here, on the stairs,
Listening as her vitality and spirit
Is slowly splattered on the floor and walls,
With every drop of her blood that is forced
From her delicate body.

The door opens and I shrink back from him,
But this time it’s her, not in a crumpled heap
On the kitchen floor. She looks
Shaken and stumbles down the hall
To the bathroom, sick.

I run to the door and look in at
The crushed and damaged form of
My step-father, red blood spreading
Like a giant flower on the floor,
With him in the centre.

I stand, mouth open, unable to move,
Pinned to this place, used to mother’s
Inanimate form, coming round
With my damp cloth on her forehead.
But not this time.

I step forward and know that
This time no damp cloth will
Bring the prostate form around.
She draws up behind me
Pale and sad.

Together we stand, gazing at
The feared figure, small
And insignificant now, on the floor
Of the kitchen, where mother
Usually lies.