Tag: violence

Two Poems by Ann Kammerer

~ ONE ART ~ 3 Comments

Little Veils

When we were little,
me and Janie
wore veils to mass—
white ones,
lacy ones,
triangular ones
that Mom
pinned in place
with thin metal clips
so they’d stay put
and wouldn’t slip
from our fine yellow hair.

We wore percale dresses, too—
the same one every Sunday,
matching ones from Sears
with tiny white flowers,
a Peter Pan collar,
and a deep blue sash
with a fake satin sheen.

Mom said to hurry
so I helped Janie dress.
She said Dad got mad
when we dawdled
and made him late
to church.
When we were done—
our sashes bow-tied
and our white Mary Janes
all buckled and shined—
we went to find Mom
as she smoked
in the bathroom,
a hairbrush, bobby pins,
and veils on the sink.

“About time.”
She took a last puff
and tossed her Viceroy
into the toilet,
making it singe.
“Janie first.”

Janie backed away.
Mom grabbed her arm
and pushed her down
on the edge of the tub.

“Good little girls
do what they’re told
Hold still.”

Mom laid the veil
over a knot of snarls,
wedging bobby pins
over and under
each side.

“There,” she said.
“All done.”

Janie sobbed.
I wiped her face
with toilet paper.
Mom stood behind me,
pinning down my veil,
poking my scalp,
telling me to be quiet
when I said it hurt.

“There,” she said.
“You’re done, too.”

She touched my cheek,
then Janie’s,
saying it was OK now.
Fiddling with a loose button
on her faded rose dress,
she draped a black veil
over her wavy brown hair,
smoothing the lacy ends
over her shoulders.

“See,” she said.
“I have to wear one, too,
just like you.”

Mom put on lipstick
and feathered on rouge.
She dabbed tan make-up
on the deep gray circles
beneath her eyes,
then over the
green-purple bruises
on her wrists—
the ones she got when Dad
slammed down his drink
and grabbed her,
pushing her
against the wall.

“We were just
dancing,” she had said later
when she tucked us in bed,
her hair falling over her eyes
as she kissed us goodnight.
“He does that sometimes.
With me. After he has
a bad day at work.”

*

Communion

We always sat
in the same order
in the same pew
at the same mass
at St. Lucy’s.

Dad slid in first,
Mom second,
holding Janie’s hand.
I got in next,
my bare legs sticking
to the unvarnished pew.
My big brother Freddie
sat beside me and
my other brother Charlie
sat at the end,
his head swiveling
as he looked for Theresa,
the Italian girl whose dad
owned Armando’s,
Dad’s favorite bar.

“Quit fidgeting.”
Mom poked me
as I fiddled with my veil
and clicked the beaded latch
on my vinyl purse.
Janie wiggled, too,
kicking the back of the pew.
Dad winced and bent over,
one hand on his stomach,
the other pressed
to his forehead.

“He doesn’t
feel good,” Mom sighed.
“I don’t either.”

Her breath smelled
fruity and sour,
just like it had last night
when she tucked
me and Janie in bed.

“We should’ve skipped
mass,” she said.
“Your dad.
He’s in no condition.”

Mom rubbed her eyes
and licked her dry lips.
The pipe organ echoed
as a boy in a white robe
carried a jeweled crucifix
down the center aisle.
Two boys followed
clutching lit candles.
A third swung
an ornate brass bowl
on a chain,
spewing spicy smoke.
The priest came last,
draped in brilliant sateen,
his hands clasped
atop the copper filagree
embroidered on his robe.

Sun poured through
the stained-glass windows
as the boys reached the altar
and placed the cross
and candles beside
a small, pearled tabernacle
with a golden dome.
The priest stepped up
and raised his arms.
We all stood
in prayer.

“Stand up.”
Mom kicked Dad
in the shin,
but he didn’t move,
mumbling we’d all
be sitting back down
anyway.

“See.”
He muttered prayers
as we all sat and stood
then sat again,
just like he said.
Opening our hymnals,
we sang and prayed
to a father and son
and holy ghost,
then knelt
to bow our heads.

The priest chanted.
The altar boys rang bells.
People rose
from their pews
to walk single file
and kneel at a railing
by the altar.
Folding their hands
they closed their eyes
and opened their mouths,
the priest placing wafers
on their tongues
before they got up
and filed back
to their seats.

“It’s our turn now, right?”
Freddie nudged Charlie.

“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie said.

They stumbled out,
webbing their hands
beneath their chins.

“Wait for me,” I said.
“I want a cookie, too.”

When I started to scooch,
Mom grabbed my sash,
tugging me back.

“No,” she said.
“You can’t go.”

She said I was
too little,
that Janie was
too little, too,
that the boys
were the only ones
who could go
to communion
since she and Dad
had been bad
and missed confession.

“We’ll go next Sunday,” she said,
“after we say a few
Hail Marys and Our Fathers
to get rid of our sins.”

*

Ann Kammerer lives near Chicago, and is from Michigan. Her short fiction and poetry is typically set in the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s, and examines the tensions and ideals of people living in the rustbelt. She has published fiction and poetry in literary magazines and anthologies, and has five poetry collections through independent small presses. You can find her recent or upcoming work in Fictive Dream, ONE ART, Chiron Review, The Broken Spine, 10 by 10 Flash, Open Arts Forum, Cold Caller Magazine, Cajun Mutt Press, and at annkammerer.com

Three Poems by Len Kuntz

~ ONE ART ~ 2 Comments

Kin

We ran like soiled sheets
haunted by the wind.
There was kin
we’d never heard of
and uncles we knew too well.
At the end of that scabby cliff
there sat a junk tractor, a
black and blue
John Deere rusting in
the sun’s fist.
One of us hopped on,
cranked hard,
as if there was gold
under the hood.
The other pushed it over
the edge without
saying a word.

* 

Seventh Grade

My mother’s new wig is
the carrot color of a robin’s breast,
stiff instead of bouncy.

She hunches over the steaming
oven in our trailer,
topless again, two full moons
drooping during daytime.

It’s been a summer of
forest fires yet she’s smoking
an ashy Tareyton, holding a spatula
with ragu or blood
splattered on the rough end of the spoon.

I have a friend finally. It’s
my first one since moving
to this new park where I’ve
learned there are different
kinds of smoke, all of them
loitering like ghosts with
too much time on their hands.

I feel like coughing
but swallow the scratchy fist
inside my throat instead.

I haven’t looked at her since
she first appeared though
I know it’s almost 3:30 because
the little Pocahontas clock says so.

When I ask Mom if she can
please put a shirt on, I see her
out of the corner of my eye,
chopping air, as if the spatula
is a tomahawk, shooing two horseflies
into the broken window.

Just you wait, she says.

*

Rushmore

We were cemetery kids
unafraid of anything
but our impulses or luck
like how Gordy took out every
car windshield in our
middle school parking lot
that fall when it felt
like summer cheated us again
or how Eddy used a pair of
brass knuckles them heavy
ones that feel lighter
than they look to beat the cousin
his sister said raped her

We drank our beers
cold or warm it didn’t matter
because we knew what others didn’t
that the world was flat as a marine’s high-top
with a drop off ledge that sucks
you off it same as a pastor talking sin
while going on and doing
what he did to some of us

And me I knew I always
blinked too much or too fast when
they asked about my mom how
she was feeling while never
mentioning the bruises or lost teeth
but that’s years gone by now
before the fire and these bars
the bare wall staring back at me
like a headstone someone made too large
like Rushmore with no faces on it

*

Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State and the author of six books, most recently, THINGS I CAN’T EVEN TELL MYSELF out from Ravenna Press. You can find more of his writing at lenkuntz.blogspot.com

Sexual violence as taught to me by 2009 Wattpad romance by Rose Ramsden

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

Sexual violence as taught to me by 2009 Wattpad romance

and when it happens to you
in a club bathroom/house party/dark
street, your love interest will
tear you from your perpetrator’s grasp,
beat the violence from him,
save you
then hold you,
like a mouth holds air.

The perpetrator disappears,
returns to shadowed corners,
never again
seen at the dinner table
or beside you in a classroom.

The fantasy is not
in the absence of violence,
but the simplicity of it.
You are just too
desirable. Irresistible.

The fantasy is not in absence but
the idea that someone will help
stop it.

Everything is just
and we all move on.

*

Rose Ramsden is writer based in Surrey, UK. Her work has been previously published by bathmagg, Propel, 14Poems, and rejected by many more. She has a masters in Creative Writing: Poetry from Royal Holloway and a BA in English Literature with Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia. In 2024, she was a winner of Switchboard’s 50 Year Anniversary Poetry Competition. You can find her on Instagram @RoseRamsden.