Hydrangeas
By Thea Matthews
Your father left me
for dead with soiled
pampers and
a scorching
Lavender Blue
larynx on his 1960s Green carpet.
I laid there limp
in the
living
room,
tears destined to preserve me, I cried for you; I
screamed Mommy until I passed out. Yearning
Your presence cradled me until I was 9.
Then at 12,
I spoke through an eroding esophagus,
a belly on fire from secrets,
a compressed throat,
a murmurous heart––
I told you what happened.
Silence
befell You.
You did what you could only do
as the frightened, helpless abused
little girl you are
trapped inside an inflated body of
comforting blubber and dark sagging skin.
You were so scared.
Your
lips
shivered/
You froze
for the next
10 years.
[ ]
But you have such a loquacious tongue
when avoiding grief. You tested my
unwavering love with muteness.
You ripped me out, pulled me up,
I was once a dutiful daughter.
Now,
I am merely a bouquet of Hydrangeas
Slowly languishing in the Autumn wind
stranded, without water.
But still, I love you.
Even after you
continued to devour a
pyramid of marshmallow coated
roasted yams, mash potatoes,
cranberries, seasoned stuffing,
and slices of baked turkey
when seated sandwiched between
me and him.
Following the family’s Thanksgiving prayer,
bite after bite, I lost appetite
I began to purge.
Your taciturnity devalued me.
Your swollen
tongue nearly
broke my dignity.
But still, I love you.
You tried to protect me––
A woman shielding her daughter
from catcalls and whistles.
A woman cursing grown men
on street corners for staring too long,
yearning to comb her daughter’s 12-year-old curves.
But woman,
Your silence made you a bystander
after I said your father molested me.
I must help you,
never stop loving you.
You easily feel unheard,
you hyperventilate.
Your lungs tighten
Your voice drops.
You talk in circles.
I remind you to breathe.
And although I wish I could wrest
Your karma,
I can’t.
Your hair thins in loneliness and your
blood clots in worries.
I see you.
I forgive you.
I hold my Truth
regardless if you
hold mine too.
Orchids
By Thea Matthews
I.
Fluttery opalescent moth wings
Fluttery opalescent moth wings
orbit my Light. Strong North Dakota
winds remind me to stay humbled.
Jolted awake,
Silence––
The stillness of Joy
Absence of incarnation
Cessation of all desires
awaits remembrance.
Although my eyes saw the first sunrise,
my heart remembers the Harvest.
Seeds root themselves in fecund soil.
Seeds grow in
Silence.
Orchids,
equanimous and upright,
open their fuchsia arms.
With their subtle grin, they hum––
Strong souls,
Rebloom.
Never doubt your propensity
to radiate boundless Light.
When you see a moth,
Spirit is near you. Stand tall.
Erect. Illuminate
your decipherment of what is True:
You are worthy of love.
You are more than
locked bedroom doors
screaming into pillows
signed executive orders
confederate lies sputtering
“you don’t belong here.”
Your blood fertilizes this Land.
Our Land/ I give birth to.
You are more than
crying on cold bathroom tile floors
crying on cold bathroom tile floors
policy governing uteri
treacherous red-tie speeches
military missiles/ drones
bullets erupting arteries
bombs bulldozing your home.
You are more than
clenched fists/ spray canned “die pigs”
tear gas defiling your lungs
shattered bank windows
masked faces/ rifles, black combat
boots splitting faces on asphalt.
boots splitting faces on asphalt.
More than borders
More than skin.
You are whole. Complete.
(II.)
Complete
like impermeable heat
Feel Spirit’s long-lasting embrace
The embryonic rhythm of life
You are immortal.
In your mind, serpents hiss––
you are hopeless, helpless,
nothing more than the incest.
Believe you are nothing.
Believe you are powerless,
wallowing in an empty riverbed
with a worn noose tied around your neck.
But remember, Strong souls
Your tears/ shackles created by someone
Else’s fears, flood your cavern with
inflammable oily water. Purify.
Keep your lungs and heart open.
Relax your spine. Stretch
your groin.
Today’s march was yesterday’s frontline.
Tomorrow is another struggle. Your faith
turns limestone to loaves of bread/ Your
Faith walks on water.
Thea Matthews is a Poetivist (poet + activist)/ Spoken Word Artist who frequents San Francisco’s Bay Area literary scene. Recently, one of her poems, "Protea" was published through the online feminist blog RAG QUEEN PERIODICAL (2017), and "Tempest" was featured in the anthology "Sweet Wolverine: a Collection” (2015).