A Survivor is Born

Naked, crawling
Beneath a sky of blazing thorns
Flesh seared, pink, raw
Burned,
Bruised,
Blistered
Awash in rain and blood
As thunder threatens
To collapse the heavens
A survivor is born
To hold the sky
To raise a voice
Against the defeaning roar
With the strength of a single tear.

Lynn Mari ©2007

A Shanty in the Hollow

A shanty in the hollow, among thick trees and muddy lake
Gave birth to ancient struggle, oh secrets seeded there
Mara survived, poverty and bitter heart ache

Rotgut whiskey there was plenty of while the cupboards bare
A drunken hand raised to trembling children, who hold back tears
So hungry, Mara’s stolen the last bit of grain from the starving mare

Mara is hiding her body, beneath tattered clothes, she avoids mirrors
Not of silver or glass, but from eyes like her own
Hands reach for Mara’s small breasts, she shudders as cold hand nears

Tumbling in darkness, the night is pierced with a moan
This is the cry of Mara’s secret, birthing from amniotic shame
For a silver coin, Mara will use her body—it is the way she was shown

Mara will leave the hollow, to seek a new life, a new name
Though she wears a pretty dress, the scars will never fade
The past slows escape, as if she were lame

There is one way out, a trap must be laid
Smile the right way, show a little skin
For everything that is gained, a debt must be paid

Mara gains deep satisfaction when he begs for a bit of sin
Humiliated, he will raise his fists, smashing her pretty face
As the months pass, her belly swells where bruises begin

Mara will be married in a curtain of white lace
She can’t say she is happy but she is hungry no more
Sheltered among shame budding in an old hollow place

Mara’s firstborn son learns to curse and kick in the door
Lullabies have become ugly accusations sung to broken dreams
Mara will raise a frying pan and knock her husband to the floor

A silver glint in the night, flesh torn by a knife that gleams
Firstborn will speak the language of rage with a raised fist
Violence has ripped the family apart at the seams

Northern winds push down an old shanty, causing ancient trees to twist
Old secrets, old wounds will give way to rot
The next generation struggles to wrench free from its pervasive mist.

L. Mari, ©2007

Note: The name “Mara” is Hebrew and means bitter.