towering pine

Some things leave no room for misunderstanding,
like your climbs to the tops of towering pines,
and your belief that you can never cry.

At age five, you dream of a woman
with wings like a bat dressed all in black.
She swoops down, grabs you, pins you in her lap,
and while hitting you over and over, she’s whispering
that it will end when you stop struggling;
so you pretend to relax until her grip loosens
and then you fight to escape, but each time
her strength overwhelms you. It takes
several beatings before you realize
she is trying to help you, she is teaching you
how to be brave—
how to be so still
that you can let yourself have no feeling
when the scratchy hands are pressing into you,
like the night lets itself be swallowed by darkness.

An eight-year-old now, you’re standing
outside their locked bedroom door, waiting
for your mother to call to you
as he yells his nonsense, rips out drawers,
and slams the walls with his fists.
When something made of glass shatters
against the vanity, her cry of surprise
convinces you to call the police.
They come and go in a flash—
barely pausing to ruffle your hair
and chuckle
that it was all “just a misunderstanding”—
and they leave you there,
to keep being unseen.

For most of the school year,
at age eleven, you are chronically ill:
the oozing, itching, grey-swollen chickenpox lesions
that make you potently untouchable,
lead to an infiltration of fevers, flooded lungs,
and swollen, piercing tonsils and ears
that hold you prisoner from the inside,
but soon you come to know your captors
as the oddly loyal, untiring allies
who keep you warded at night, for months.
Your classmates are jealous, though,
that you still make passing grades
in your constant absence from school—
on the phone, they accuse you of faking,
and you can’t help the feeling, either,
that being sick really is a kind of cheating,
like getting something you want
without doing anything to earn it.

Mom is taking you to open a bank account
with your own passbook, though you’re just twelve
(her eyes are still swollen from crying yesterday),
so you can sign for the money you’ll need to get
yourself and your little brother to the airport
to fly to an uncle you barely know in New York,
if she either goes missing, or you find her dead,
because, as she’s confided to you—
and you have no reason not to believe it—
your father vowed to kill her.
For the next three years, then (she doesn’t know),
you skip lunch at school and save the money
to deposit into the “plane ticket” account.
No, she never gets murdered,
maybe even because you always keep watch,
like the kind of parent you’d want to be would,
even after your father finally moves out
during the same summer you get your tonsils
(and the disease they harbored) removed.

You’re now proving to be a picture of health
(though you bear the hunger of indignity, standing
in lines in the school gym for government hand-outs
of peanut butter, processed cheese and expired bread),
because you can run like no one else.
You are your soccer coach’s favorite, you believe,
because you are tough, and you work the hardest.
He makes a fuss over you like you are special,
takes you out for ice cream, has you come along
on fishing trips with his sons, and invites
you over for dinner, or to stay the night,
and you never consider he’ll expect you to repay him
for these casual, kind gestures, until
he’s suddenly always touching and hugging you
as if it is his right, and even though you make sure
only to be in public places with him,
in plain sight of your teammates’ parents,
you can’t discourage his lewd hovering,
or his propositions (which he thinks are charming)
for you to fuck him in the back of his van.
Somebody should be watching!
Somebody should be watching!
People are watching, but they only see
the things that have no need
for invisibility, like the crude posturing
of a man just being a man—

just someone who reserves
the Scouts’ clubhouse through Parks and Rec
for a “team meeting” that you feel obligated to attend;
someone who waits on a weekday evening
in a prefab aluminum building
with the lights dimmed
for a fifteen-year-old girl to enter alone,
while, at home, his own kids watch T.V.,
and his wife keeps his dinner warm.

Some things leave no room for misunderstanding—

like the lust throbbing in a man’s neck,
the presumption gleaming in his eyes,
and the fact that wrongs always pile upon wrongs
in the same way he now heaps this assault from behind,
with his thick hands fumbling for your breasts,
on top of his preposterous lie;

and so when he leans in with his belly
and his cock stiffens against the small of your back,
a scream gets trapped in your throat,
and you find yourself struggling wildly—
you elbow him hard in the ribs,
then rear up and ram your head into his chin,
and somehow stun him long enough
to get away—

you get away,
but leaving yourself there
unseen in the dark
doesn’t ever feel brave.


“Brave” first appeared on this blog in June 2016. It was since published in the anthology by TulipTree Publishing, LLC, entitled, Stories That Need to Be Told, a powerful collection of stories and poems (available for purchase on Amazon), and a finalist for a 2017 Colorado Book Award!

32 thoughts on “Brave

  1. Thanks, Daniel. I seem to be good at rendering even the most prolific of thinkers and speakers void of words. It doesn’t matter that you don’t know what to say in response to this poem’s tip-of-the-iceberg account — but it matters a lot to me that you were moved to say something.

    Yes, if ever you perceive that an occasion calls for it, that you might be in a position to make even a tiny difference, definitely err on the side of saying something …

    Liked by 2 people

  2. It seems absurd to hit the “like” button in acknowledgement and shy away from saying anything – even though this piece is beyond gripping and compelling.

    It leaves me breathless and speechless – the essence of the layers of fear, anxiety, worry – the “crazy” that far too many live and breathe-not breathe with each moment, is absolutely scratchy. These are the thorns that rip skin and catch in the throat – and I thank you for sharing it so powerfully well – even as it is so deeply painful.

    Liked by 2 people

    • Bless you for this. I don’t expect that people will just automatically know a thing to say in response to this piece. Even touching the “like” button with a ten foot pole is braver than brave should ever have to be. Some of us may be more accustomed than others to jumping into the fire, but I wouldn’t wish the initiation by which such temperaments are forged on anyone.

      Liked by 2 people

      • Quite right – pieces like these often leave people speechless, or uncomfortable, or trying to find words that can offer some form of comfort or understanding – but it’s important that these experiences are voiced, so once again, thank you.

        As for bravery? and defining or understanding it? always subjective, but in this case, any one who has tasted even a slip of what you’ve written about here, understands and knows – the confusion that can rest and linger far after the events, and I speak not only of the physical, but the redefining and understanding of self and how we relate in the world, and of course, if one is a writer/poet – how we can define the complexities of a word like “brave” –

        hope you have a wonderful weekend 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

      • I hear you. I’m a pretty empathetic person (almost to the point of mind-reader sometimes), but nowadays, as a middle-aged mom of teens, I’m finally figuring out that I never really learned to apply my ways of “being in the world” toward myself. Hence a new phase of “redefining” is in order, as I deserve to benefit from the same level of compassion I’ve focused on others for so long. What a concept, huh? Happy weekend to you, as well!

        Liked by 2 people

      • I completely understand what you’re saying here …. totally ….. I’m not a mom but mid-aged too, and re-definition takes on a whole new meaning, and the empathetic aspect too – both a blessing and a curse. And you’re right – re-establishing new lines and forms of who we are, in relation to the gift of giving to ourselves first is a challenge and yup, what an idea?

        thanks – hope to enjoy the sun 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

  3. It completely sucks that you, that anyone should have to endure anything like this. It isn’t right; it isn’t fair. And yet it happens. I’m so impressed at your ability to speak up against it so movingly and to recognize the bravery in that girl. She’s awesome.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Thank you for sharing this. It was gripping and tragic. Telling your story does get the hearing process started. At long last, I have found the inspiration to tell my story. To come out of the shadows, once and for all. You’ve inspired me with your bravery and honesty.

    Liked by 1 person

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