The crack of my father’s belt over my brother’s back;
That is all I hear.
The scent of alcohol on my father’s breath;
That is all I smell.
The salt of my tears as I beg for my brother;
That is all I taste.
The rough carpet on the floor of our trailer in the middle of nowhere;
That is all I feel.
The twang of my father’s accent beneath his slurred words;
Only if I listen well.
The smell of my brother’s shampoo, his hair washed yesterday at school because we have no plumbing;
Only if I inhale deeply.
The taste of blackberries, picked wild from our backyard, eaten just yesterday;
Only if I swallow hard.
The corduroy patch on the skirt of my dress, made from my brother’s old Sunday School pants;
Only if I feel around for it.
The mocking of other children at school because I show up with bruises up and down my arms;
I try not to hear it.
The scent of alcohol on my dress where my father spilled on it;
I try not to smell it.
The dirt in the well water I drink;
I try not to taste it.
My father’s palm against my face;
I try not to feel it.
The words of the psychiatrist as she talks to me about my father’s problem;
I don’t want to listen.
The sickly sweet smell of her hundred dollar perfume;
I don’t want to smell it.
The pills she had prescribed as I swallowed them down;
I don’t want to taste them.
The hard backed chair in her office;
I don’t want to feel it.
The condescending tone with mock-sympathy and her holier-than-thou voice;
I am sick of hearing it in everyone.
Cleanliness of the orderlies in their starched white uniforms;
I am sick of smelling it everywhere.
Blood;
I am sick of tasting it every day.
Pity;
I am sick of feeling it from everyone.
I only have four senses because my sight is always red.
I am just living the American Dream
Of simple country life.