Two Seconds Before


I've felt hands tug urgently
at my dress-tail
two seconds before
Daddy vowed

he would not let me go.

Not at twenty
with only half my blood packed
and visions of bald-headed babies
still floating around somewhere
in our skulls.

I felt those hands slip
into warm waiting palms,
turn from ice cold drinking water
into heated marmalade

two seconds
before
the healing
began

and a dead mother whispered flatly
to Dad

that she wouldn't take me
just yet.

Not at twenty
with only half my blood packed,
three limbs unusable
and visions of blonde headed
grandbabies still floating around
somewhere in his skull.

My granny tells me
something's been after me for years.
That since the beginning,
something's tried its damnedest
to kill my spirit.

I trust the voice
of a wise old lady.

And the dreams
of a prophetic father

who sometimes asks me
not to leave the house.

( He's not been sleeping well
and bees covered me again,
last night in his dream. )

I trust the instincts
of a kind old man

who wrestles
at night
with a
fifteen years
since
she's been
dead,
woman

begging her
not to take me.

Not at twenty
with only half my blood packed
and dreams
of unborn boys and girls
still stirring
in my hips.

Not until
I learn the healing
ways
of old Appalachian women
who search
for their
daughters
and granddaughters
and selves
somewhere in my skin.

Granny says somethings been after me for years.

And on days like today,
when I haven't been sleeping well
and worn down abandoned houses
occupy my dreams,
blood stains the bathroom

two seconds before
I wake up
and realize
someone's just said my name,

I begin to think
that a wise old woman
just may be right.




( Daddy tells me I have my mother's eyes. )