He Never Hits Me Hard
He never hits me hard.
Not ready, in love.
Happy, except sometimes:
blue places, scarred, broken
dark crying crazy
pretty face all beaten and black.
She is afraid.
Please come back,
This is the last time
Ashamed. He never hits me hard.
Found poem from:The House on Mango Street, by: Sandra Cisneros
The neat little houses, all in a row,
Are shades of white, blue, marigold.
The doors open wide, yards flooded with light
As sweet smells of supper drift into the night.
The lights fade to pinpricks as I continue my walk,
The night becomes colder, these houses are locked
Up with bars, with chains, with double padlocks
The windows are shattered where gangs propelled rocks.
I turn my face down, as I shamefully know
That our one room apartment awaits me below
The bar where mom works her life away for us;
The bills pile up and the money’s never enough.
In my mind I picture the marigold house,
A sweet mother greeting me in a golden blouse
Saying “honey, supper’s on the table tonight!”
In our permanent address where dad is in sight.
I shake the thoughts away as I quickly recall,
I must feed my sister, so tender and small.
Reality hits me as I stand in the cold
And dream of our life, but in Marigold.