Fusion

It's been thirty-six years.
I've tried to divorce myself for twenty-five.
No alimony or wishes monetary,
Simply oblivion in a haunting cemetery.
Blankness in the Bedlam of my brain,
That place which every few years goes insane.
Life is assassin-angry,
A first-class trip to Hell.
But there will be relief in the mourning bell.
Perhaps someone will even be my Boswell.

It began with you, O Mother mine.
You began at seven with your morning wine.
By noon, you were always flying keen,
Thanks to your friend Jim, who made you Beam.
I remember trying to win your favor
As you reached for your vodka, which you always savored.
In the summertime, your eyes were winter-bright
As you would sit on me and fill me with fright;
With strong hands at my throat,
My head slammed on the floor, choke-choked.
You'd been kissing Jim,
Could smell him on your breath.
You were the one who made me crave death.

Deliverance eludes me;
None of God's angels have come to me during this furor.
Any time now, it will be my curtain call.
My last turn as a pretending giggle-girl soubrette,
Spreading lusty laughter to all.

This new play needs great planning
With the Happy Mask abandoned.
I've been wearing it for years,
Since I was eleven.
Two faces fused, becoming one;
But now, finally,
Look, Mom! —
I'm done.

©Rebecca Pilcher Sissom