Catherine Arra

My Power

I’m twelve, blooming breasts, baby-bottle nipples,

clutching the shower curtain, a ring-like affair

in an old-footed tub, modesty wrapped,

head turtled out watching him

wrestle with the clogged drain, frustrated. My father.

Another household malfunction.

He looks up, scowls at my rising blush.

Oh, for Chrissake! Who do you think you are, Brigitte Bardot?

Frozen between who we are, who we would always be,

between my shock, his anger, wanting to please, to pacify,

I release my drape, dripping bursting girl-flesh,

silky mons pubis, tulip-soft wet skin. Punishing sexuality.

He looks away.

Goddamn drain.

Make-believe

Other little boys pretended cowboys, G.I. Joes.

Grew up to be pioneers, warriors, protectors.

You, fascinated with carnivals,

moving wheels, sweeping capes,

pretended a magician, then a knife thrower.

Grew up to trick your

whiskey-washed, cussing, smoke-choked,

dish-crashing, hollering, hammering, too terrified to breathe

world and pin it to the wall. By the hair, T-shirt,

black silk negligee. Wrestle it to the floor, stake it to the carpet,

only it wasn’t make-believe.

Ghosts wriggle free, voices tease, the cape twists

and plants you face down.

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Catherine Arra is a native of the Hudson Valley in upstate New York, where she lives with wildlife and changing seasons until winter, when she migrates to the Space Coast of Florida. Her poetry and prose have appeared in numerous literary journals, both online and in print and in anthologies. She is the author of four full-length collections and four chapbooks. A former high school English and writing teacher, Arra now teaches part-time and facilitates local writing groups. Find her at www.catherinearra.com