You Must Have Been Mistaken
Martha Ellen

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 run away, 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.]

IV.

Nagging thoughts.
You remember.
Shadow people sneaking about
the ER. Your dad sitting sideways
on the gurney. Finger waving to quell
smaller fears. Like you, unaware
of greater dangers always hovering.

“Get lost!” You tell them.
You make them disappear.

But the stain on your favorite
shirt remains
even with a Fels Naphtha scrubbing.

There is no escape.

You try again. Break it down.
Rearrange shards.
Force tabs into the wrong blanks.
¡ayúdame! ¡ayúdame¡ ¡ayúdame¡
Screams fade into whispers.
One dense package. Lean. Spare.
Easy to hide in a small backpack
with paint brushes, the fancy poem
about cognitive dissonance
and an MFA thesis
alluding to unseen worlds.

Others saw the charade.
They believed you’d gone mad.
You let them.
You loved them.

[They were right, though.]

V.

Old and alone. Safe. His ashes
scattered in the Eastern Oregon landfill.
No more fingers to slip through.
No more dodging blows,
accommodating jabs.
Laughing it off.

You collect troublesome, stubborn memories.
Things no one else saw nor knew.
The degrading, belittling, mocking.
“You’re nothing. No one loves you.”
The locking out. Discarded like trash.
Held at gun point. Slapped. Shoved.
Bruised. The failed murder plot.

Bargaining. Lying. Coaxing.
Crocodile tears. Sly.
Begging. Fooling. Putting at ease.
Running so quick no one could catch you.
Not dead, but sometimes playing dead.
Threats of rape.
Your brilliant fast talk to get away.
[Enduring the times you didn’t.]
“Roll with the punches.”
Mom always said. And you did.

Pushing your walker through your garden
you pass by the white rosebuds, green lilacs.
Your friend, Jack the crow, balances
in the curved branch of the tree
with unripe figs. Enthralled by
cast shadows of ash tree leaves

fluttering in a gentle breeze

before they fall.

You revel in memories of the genius

of an unwanted girl who made a life

in spite of it all.

Your knees do not hurt.

You do not stumble.

You laugh aloud.

You toss these broken bits into the air

and let them land like scraps on your

sewing room floor or like pieces of junk

discarded along a back road.

You gather them up as they lay,

bind them together into a prize-winning

quilt to wrap around for warmth and comfort.

Or you forge them into plough shares.

An iron gate. Intertwining vines and leaves.

At every swing small bells ring announcing

departure or arrival.

You pass through into green pastures.

You lie down beside the still waters.

[You and Alma share the sweetest figs.]