POETRY

I’m From The Gutter

I’m from the gutter I’m from matted filth It reeks of vile spew Down there

When I was in utero Mom exclaimed — This ain’t it She didn’t know what to do

She was the trough I was stormwater Just passing through

I was born I was thrust, pushed Into an unjust — uncaring Home

The message clear You’re not wanted I don’t want you

Also — my father Was gone A non-factor, anon

I was birthed Instantly obsolete Go away — beat feet

The message was crystal clear

I don’t want you I never did It don’t really care that You’re still a kid

As a kid — I’d cry To go away Disappear Into the ether — I’d pray

This was the narrative I knew in my breast I felt in my heart Lumped up in my chest

And every once in a while I still feel On Mother’s Day or Father’s Day Old wounds become raw anew

Unwanted Unloved Forlorn Depressed

No possible way I grew from that breast My younger half sister Was always best

That causes problems too Flying monkeys fly higher Then crash to the ground Harder than you

That people pleasing tendency Becomes hard to eschew

But still I grew You can't uncut the cable I matured — and strengthened Became more able

Still I suffered the label Firstborn — but second best

I grew up I moved out The rest is the rest

Mom never saw my potential Never saw the credentials Never acknowledged how hard I worked After I dropped from her skirt

The years passed Nothing more than an oopsie Equal parts child and albatross No love lost

Her thinking provincial She held contempt for a child Whose crime was existence

She never met the youngest Curious, kind, and smart A piece of my heart

She confronted my then spouse While pregnant — the abuser Then had the gall To call me a loser

That was the last time I spoke to her

We almost lost the girl Now a vibrant, bright Comic amuser Who gives the best hugs

Mom missed my graduations and success First in my extended family With a master’s degree

I’ve seen her once since then A perfect stranger She’s starting to show Signs of stagnation — and age

Eight years removed I remember it well As if mom committed suicide The day she declared me a loser

I grieved — and raged But resolved to move on She never truly met the eldest one

A pedagogue at nine Sweet and kind Knowledge of astronomy And geologic time

The cycle is broken I dug its grave I stand here A jumped-up knave

Sometimes That stink from the sewer Hits my nose I’m on top of the grate

I’ll make sure The stink won’t reach my kids I’m from underground But now I’m above

I extended my arms Pushed up on that grate If you never give up It won’t be too late

I’m from the gutter And from the filth But those experiences Make for potent tilth

For every child who was told they weren’t good enough. You were and you are.