"Why I never said a thing" and "On Remembering Poverty"

Why I never said a thing

Because I was only 7 the first time he prodded
Because I didn't know anything was wrong
Because in my innocence I liked the attention
Because no one ever talked about such things
Because he told me that I used to like it
Because he was so beloved by all
Because he said I should have known better
Because he stopped when my thighs grew fat
Because I didn’t understand why I felt rejected
Because with every because
with every because
with every because
I felt the shame of it, the fault of it
Because he said no one would believe me
Because he was grown and I was not
Because the ones I loved would be hurt if they knew

Because the ones I loved
Would be hurt
If they knew.

 


 

On Remembering Poverty

I.

Mom and Dad worked for the auto industry.
Mom made tires; Dad helped the white bosses
understand the speech of black men who lived by
Nichols and John R.  Each year, at least one of them

was laid off.  Some years—both of them.
Pop—a can of biscuits. Hmm—the can opener.
Hiss of breaks as the government truck dropped
a load of rice, ground meat, and government cheese.

One time I heard Mom say to someone on the phone
she blew the manager at the Woolworth’s so we could have clothes
and school supplies.  I asked if she liked blowing bubbles.

 

II.

Oversized sleeve hits the middle of my hand—
a coat embossed with Motor Wheel hangs like
flowing drapes on a bay window.  Tammy
snaps and pops her Bazooka, straining pink
air pocket gives way, leaves pink goo
on her face.  Red curl encircles the pointer.

Uh, interesting coat. My coat is rabbit. 
Her Prepubescent Mafia goons laugh. 
I tell her, My coat is paid for.

 

III.

I still use my purses until the straps are
worn out or broken, until the leather peels. 
$299 for Michael Kors, my favorite brand.  I look
but never buy.  $49 for a decent knockoff.
Better yet, $12.99 for a used Coach at Goodwill.

An old part of my brain waits for the Macy’s store clerk
to know I am a fraud, to tell me I don’t belong. 
I bring my purchase to the front, wait for
suspicion, for instructions that tell me

to open my bag so she can look inside.

 

 

Janette Schafer

Janette Schafer is a poet, playwright, and opera singer living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a 2017 Maenad Fellowship winner in creative writing through Chatham University. She was a 2015 Arts MODE Fellowship awardee in playwriting through New Sun Rising LLC, the resulting theatrical work northeastsouthwest winning the 2016 Pittsburgh Fringe Festival. Upcoming and recent publications include: Red Eft Review, Eyedrum Periodically, The Woman Inc., Zany Zygote Review, and Chatham University broadsides.

 

Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Wednesday, November 14, 2018 - 22:30