Poetry from Martha Ellen ( 2 of 3 )

Sphere of the Present

Long ago he sought

only fulfillment

of his wrath and

lust. Entitled. The

dog from El Norte shed

the insignificant. A

Mexican girl

died. The meager

love she thought

true, endless

for her and

their baby, only

careening toward

the end unaware.

Her voice pierces

time seeking

justice. It reaches

into the present

“Ayudame!” I hear. I

knock on doors.

“Listen! Stop the

White dog!” Barred.

Locked forever in

an insistence to let

sleeping dogs lie

especially dogs

from El Norte.

Hidden horrors decades

old no longer

matter. Only now.

The Sphere of the Present.

All of us tangled

together. A Rat King.

Locked in a futile

struggle to survive. All

there ever was

or would be until

the end. Her

voice fades. Never

ends. ayudame

ayudame ayudame

ayudame ayudame

ayudame …..

Blonde Boy

Meet the smiling blonde boy. Never makes a fuss. [Probably.] “Hi, hun. Love ya.” A subdural, cerebellar arachnoid cyst above the right ear. Developed during gestation. Useless bits of convoluted gray matter lie about. Shaken baby. [Don’t know for sure.] A funnel-shaped cell all the way down. Down to the reptilian brain. His accomplice, Hunger, incarcerated there. Let out at night…..to feed. “Yippee!” Grinning. Mayhem. Gnawing bloody bones. Dawn. Heads for home. Door slams shut. Moans, snarls, guttural growls. Awaits dusk. Smiling blonde boy. “Good morning, hun. Love ya.”  [Maybe.]

Wounds

The wounds of our

protagonist are deeper,

more profound than

I had thought. Inflicted

in infancy. An unloved

newborn denied

even a crumb

of care and

tenderness.

He was starving. Desperate.

His faux persona might be

loved. It is all

he has. Without it

he might die adrift

in outer darkness.

Alone. No one

cares.

He has no real

self to return to if

this one fails as

it certainly will.

The artificial

can never be

sustained.

He is a parent now. The

cracks are beginning

to appear. I had predicted

he would fall like an

imploding building

destroying only

himself. But that is not

the case.

In existential crisis. He

doubles down.

Screaming. Insisting the

fake is real. He is

becoming cruel.

He is terrifying

innocent children who

need the love

he denies

them.

And when confronted,

commanded to stop

the tirade,

told he is a

monster, he lies down

to nap curled up

like a small

child.