I hear my dead father
in my daughter’s drunken abuse,
feel her traumatizing her son
the exact way
he traumatized me,
see him lying terrified
in his bed, wondering if
the threats will become
action
tonight, if he’ll live
to see morning light
with both parents alive.
His tears burn my face,
his safe refuge taken from him,
the very fabric of his life
torn into rags
All to punish me.
The venom of Snow White’s discarded apple
coursing through my blood daughter’s veins,
Casting me in the role of
traitor
with no hearing.
Immature judge, jury,
and executioner
has sealed my fate,
and murdered my
grandson’s Grammar
while playing addicted victim.
The Christians wash their hands
of me, crowding Macbeth’s lady,
sharing the blood,
making it indelible
on cruel hands.
Out, damned spot!
Or in,
take your choice.
All because the wicked queen
discarded her diadem.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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