by Motavenda Melchizedek
Here’s Moti the baby.
Every day her father fingers her in her baby crib.
The crib is in her parent’s room.
There is nothing between her and him.
She dreads and waits.
She does not call her mother.
Why should she.
As loud as she screams no one comes.
I hate her.
I hate her needs.
I hate her pain.
I hate her sorrow.
What is she saying? Is she lying again?
Here is Moti the little bitty girl.
Her father still molests her.
She is old enough now to hide.
She hides in the closet where it bends.
He rages. She is warm with fear.
She hides under the kitchen sink.
He grows madder every minute of the day.
He beats her.
Where are her sisters?
They are locked together in a room being
brainwashed so they will never talk.
And they don't.
She lives all alone.
They call her crazy.
Then they drive to New York. For Thanksgiving.
Poppy is there.
I want to vomit.
I hate him.
He hurts me.
We take turns like in communion at church.
The little girls are lined up on the stairs leading to his basement.
He fingers the little girls one by one.
Her uncle is a priest and he pretends it doesn’t happen.
Same with her aunt the nun.
And her grandmother.
And her beloved mother.
She feels her mother’s love is there.
But she is trapped behind a glass wall.
She can not help her.
Her father runs around upstairs in circles
like a wild Indian chasing her cousins.
He is all excited.
Here is Moti the seven year old.
I hate her the most and I am very sorry.
Her father fucks her
like a dog on the floor of her bedroom.
It is daylight.
Her mother doesn’t even come now.
Blood. Filth. Ugly ugly.
She is now ugly forever.
She will never be me.
And I will never be her.