Efa Underwood

Efa Underwood

I wrote my
little stories, and folks rolled their eyes.
“Who’s ever
gonna read these?” “Nothing happens.” “I
don’t get it.”
I was keener on divining things
unspoken
between people who are all alone,
than simple
turning of a story’s mechanics.

The best place
to observe the animals at play
was always
the bar at the Butcher’s Block. But there
are cruel beasts
out there, who only hear what they say
to themselves.
That’s how I was pinned by the claws of
Dutch Wallis,
who trapped me in the alley behind
Butcher’s, and
savaged me. He broke my bones, knocked out
my teeth, raked
my skin, spilled my blood and left me a
pregnancy.
That he got away with it was just
the first of
many injustices that came next.

I had no
family to support me, mother
long vanished,
father too mired in old ways to
even speak
about it, and no money for an
abortion
I begged Doctor Golden for help. He
delivered
me into the world, and I pleaded
with him to
deliver me again. He agreed
to help me.
But something went wrong and I didn’t
recover.
It took eight horrible weeks for me
to fade and
die, while Doctor Golden was dragged through
the mud and
held responsible. Him, not Wallis.

Seems it was
true. No one understood my stories.

Comments are closed.


Terms of use | Privacy Policy | Content: Creative Commons | Site and Design © 2009 | Metroblogging ® and Metblogs ® are registered trademarks of Bode Media, Inc.