Martha Ellen

No One Would Believe You Anyway

I.

at your seventeen dawn  “yes”   

[he hates phonies most of all] 

you do too  Dearly Beloved

peaceandloveandallthat

punkin-lunkin  pancakes

slathered in butter dripping

with sweet syrup  1966

“he’s such a gentle soul”

at the dusk in a sidelong glance

s  o  m  e     t  h  i  n  g  protrudes

through a weak seam or

causes an unnatural bump

to swell beneath the shirt

non-human eyes flit side to 

side  w e i r d tongue   darts 

from a drooling maw 

gait                     like an ape 

        inexplicable

horrifying      a guttural growl

[hallucinations       you’re mistaken]

II. 

Bridal illusion is a soft 

mesh net fabric 

often used for veils 

or layered over opaque 

cloth to create an 

ethereal effect. Illusions 

are peaceful places. 

You preferred living there.

Plastic flatware was sterling. 

Cratchit Christmases, gilded. 

Paper plates, Limoges.

His plan to smother 

you one Autumn day 

on the uphill footpath

in the deserted forest

in northern Illinois

then sliding your infant 

under the surface of 

the nearby river until 

she drifted away, 

was thwarted only 

by his overwhelming fear

of capture         this time.

 

You were communing with nature. 

Hippie-style. Silly flower child.

Not a runaway, a tossed aside.

Didn’t see the hesitation, 

slack face, disappointment, 

nor his defeat and resignation. 

His need for power and control.

You didn’t see anything, did you?

[You doubt. And you forget.]

III. 

You rested your mind in the tangible. 

The slippery satin quilt. 

Butter pecan ice cream. 

Sunny afternoons in Chicago 

supported by Big Shoulders. 

Civil Rights rallies. A fragrant rose. 

Sapphire skies. Puffy clouds.

Cesar Chavez. NFWA picket lines.

Your baby’s first laugh aloud.

Road trips in the VW bus.

The soothing rhythm of lane markers

ticking like a time bomb.

Big birds threw shadows 

across your eyes, too. Drifting. 

Helpless with Neil in North Ontario. 

Where “My darling, I don’t give a damn”

and “Tomorrow is another day” reside.

        the forest with the uphill footpath

ceased to exist.

You found his secret poem. 

Read over and over.

“The sag of her face as the life drained out.”

“The sag of her face as the life drained out.”

“The sag of her face as the life drained out.”

The hidden life of an upstanding citizen. 

Fiction. Horror. Forget them.

Dissociated. Only in the Dark Wood 

of dreams lurked the abandoned 

factory in Tijuana          and Alma,

the one before you.

[No one would believe you anyway.]