Pins and Needles

Pins and needles

She made a monument of pain
in her closet wall as a child
with her mother’s straight pins.
One for each angry word,
one for the back of her mother’s hand on her cheek.
Rows of pins lined up in the sheetrock
like tiny bars in a prison.
In her cell, the tails of hung clothing

brush her curls, wiping the tears from her eyes
as she stuck in the wall yet another pin.
One more reminder of her mother’s disappointment.
One more reminder that she shared her father’s eyes.
Little metal sculptures, cages, little trophies,
those pins so precisely placed were to remind her
of every way she wasn’t good enough,
and of every cut whittled from her soul.

Now, I write her words, and I can see
half a century later, that little girl crying in her closet,
tears cooling her slapped cheeks,
a single pin grasped tightly in her hand
as she pokes it in the closet wall with indignant intent
promising herself, when she has a child one day,
she will not be that kind of mother.
And she has kept her promise.

She was raised on pins and needles
but gave me words and colors
to say what I felt, to see the beauty of my world
without fear and uncertainty.
I write these words to reach that little girl.
I pray my words can wipe the tears from her soul,
and soothe the wounds I can only imagine.
I write to say thank you for being the mother she never had.


SWPoet
32 Lines (see below for uncut version)

This is dedicated to the mothers and fathers who broke the cycle of abuse,
and raised their children without a road map, with only the compass of what not to do
to lead their way through parenthood.  To them, and for their children,
I write this to thank them for a job well done.


Below is the original version (above, the poem has be reduced to 32 lines for a contest)

Pins and needles

She made a monument of pain
in her closet wall as a child
with her mother’s straight pins.
One for each angry word,
one for the back of her mother’s hand on her cheek.
Rows of pins lined up in the sheetrock
like tiny bars in a cell.
Her cell, the bottoms of hung clothing

brushing her curls, wiping the tears from her eyes
as she stuck in the wall yet another pin.
One more reminder of her mother’s disappointment.
One more reminder that she shared her father’s eyes.
Little metal sculptures, cages, little trophies,
those pins so precisely placed were to remind her
of every way she wasn’t good enough,
and of every cut whittled from her soul.

The house sold long ago.          
No one mentioned the closet,
no one asked about the pins
but they remain somewhere
in the dark chasm of a mother
promising her child won’t have to live
on pins and needles,
won’t have to mark her pain
on walls, or on her soul.

Now, I write her words, and I can see
half a century later, that little girl crying in her closet,
tears cooling her slapped cheeks,
a single pin grasped tightly in her hand
as she pokes it in the closet wall with indignant intent
promising herself, when she has a child one day,
she will not be that kind of mother.
And she has kept her promise.

She was raised on pins and needles
but gave me words and colors
to say what I felt, to see the beauty of my world
without fear and uncertainty.
I write these words to reach that little girl.
I pray my words can wipe the tears from her soul,
and soothe the wounds I can only imagine.
I write to say thank you
for being the mother she never had.


SWPoet