By Aoife Kirby
My mother fed me arsenic
from a tarnished, silver spoon
She recited practiced passages
and chased me ‘round the room
I hid under the table
small hands covering my eyes
til’ she lashed her wicked tongue at me
and pinched my chubby thighs
She said “good girls eat their dinner,”
so I swallowed rotten fruit
snaked my fingers down my throat
mouth wide open, scream on mute
My father fed me cyanide
yellow paper on crumbling walls
I choked upon the noxious paste
and fell unconscious in the hall
Feverish and dizzy, to him it was pretend
women are “hysterical,” and lack the strength of men
He lined his pockets with silver
golden rings upon each hand
and when this home displeased him
he abandoned it again
My sister gave me hope to drink
thinly cupped inside her hand
her own mouth parched and feeble
hair falling out, strand by strand
How had she found such kindness
in a decrepit home of filth
where no life could thrive inside of it
every flower left to wilt
A match was struck, ignited
gasoline stains upon the floor
down came the home we never had
left in ash and dust once more