Poetry by Jen Schneider

           Terry Chapman CC

​

So, was she right or wrong?
 
He beat her often, maybe daily.
All the time.
One time, he made her
lie in the bed
He set the bed on fire.
He beat her often, maybe daily.
All the time.
Us kids, we didn’t understand.
She let him.
She laid still,
like a lone flower
in a hot desert.
Confused, out of sorts,
in the bed. Motionless.
The flames screamed his fury.
And smothered her fear.
He left the house.
Not saying a word.
Not to her. Not to us.
He beat her often, maybe daily.
All the time.
Us kids,
we put out the fire.
She didn’t say a word.
We asked her,
Why stay silent?
For you, she said.
He’d hurt you.
All the time.
So, we stayed silent.
Until later.
Months later.
He still beat her.
All the time.
One time, she killed him.
For us, she said.
They did not care.
Now, we visit her.
Behind bars.
As often as we can.
Rarely. Not daily.
Not all the time.
She sits there, still,
like a lone flower
in a hot desert.
All the time.




Going (Somewhere)

February 6th. 7:21 AM.
Discharge papers filed. Their corners
lined up, just right.
Staples pressed. And removed.
Personal belongings returned.
Former possessions, still mine I suppose,
look foreign.
Tailored for a body I no longer
own. A person I no longer know.


February 6th. 9:05 AM.
I step forward and refuse to look back.
My worn Converse sneaker,
with the hole in the right big toe,
presses down gently, then harder,
on the automatic door opener.


February 6th. 9:12 AM.
My knees shake. The glass door closes
behind me. Behind me.
Along with the darkness.
I stare ahead.


February 6th. 9:14 AM.
Pushing back memories of lockdown.
Of your sneers and cold eyes.
Pushing through a cold
wind that dances around the ragged
navy hoodie wrapped around
my waist. My heart races.
 
February 6th. 9:15 AM.
I clench a plastic bag
with my free hand.
My life.
Now confined to a single bag.
No longer in a single cell.
A single drop of sweat mixes with
an unexpected tear.
I bet you never knew I
was capable of crying.
Always task oriented.
You said I’d never get out.
That I’d have to listen to you forever.
Looks like I won. Maybe.


February 6th. 1:43 PM.
Inmate #867429, catching Flight #1854,
to somewhere. Making my own moves.
A single man. A free man.
Going anywhere. Not here.
Traveling non-stop.


February 6th. 2:14 PM.
I hope you find my note.
I want you to know.
 
February 6th. 8:02 AM.
I’ll say it out loud, anyway.
12 years prior. What they said I did
was, and still is, a lie.
Not that it matters. Not now.
Not anymore. I’m going.
 
Somewhere.

​


​Knock(ed)
 
Dear, Daughter (1)
Sorry to leave
a note, but I had to go. (2)
Some of us have work.
Can’t afford to sleep all day.
The baby is clean, fed, and napping.
Before I forget…
They knocked yesterday.
Three quick taps, one right after the other.
You were sleeping. Again.
I was cleaning dishes. Again.
Good thing I had the place in order. (3)
Your neighbors, down the hall
and around the corner.
A sweet couple. They looked tired.
With forced smiles. And fancy clothes.
They hear the baby at night,
and say he cries.
A lot.
The walls aren’t that thin.
In fact, they’re not thin at all.
Like you. (4)
He must be loud.
Too loud, I bet. Hmmph.
Are you feeding him enough?
Maybe your milk is bad.
Do you read him stories?
How often do you check his diaper?
They said they came
to congratulate you,
but I think
his cries bother them.
They left a card.
I bet they felt they had no choice.
Why do you let him cry?
I always knew you weren’t meant
To be a mother.
I have good instincts. (5)
Unlike you.
Motherhood is my calling.
Not yours.
Even though you got knocked up.
Too much time behind bars
stripped you of warmth.
I see it in your eyes,
some sort of meanness. (6)
Them drugs must have messed
with your brain.
Not mine.
Wiped out any motherly instincts.
If any.
You should let me raise him, I think.
At my place. It’s clean. Safe. (7)
More space for me, and him.
No one will come knocking (8)
I’ll make sure he’s happy.
Cared for.
No more lost socks.
Well fed.
No more cries for milk.
Safe.
No more knocks at the door. (9)
Clean.
Drug-free.
Kissed.
Loved.
Always. (10)
Think about it.
Play your cards
Right, this time.
Opportunities like this
won’t always come knocking.
You can go back to sleep. (11)


(1) Dear, Mother
(2) Funny, I just now found your note. At the bottom of a pile of papers I’ve never read. It’s been years. Wow.
(3) Your letters, they’ve been forwarded. But never opened. And, we left that place soon after I got a promotion at work.
(4) My thick skin is what’s gotten me through, and past, you.
(5) Looks like my instincts were right all along.
(6) You’ve sent fake good-doers knocking. To ask why I don’t answer your letters. Or return your calls.
(7) I ask how can you not know. I was never safe with you.
(8) Do you not remember? I’d call to you. While you pretended I was sleeping.
(9) I rarely sleep well. Your knocks haunt my dreams, still. Always.
(10) The baby. He’s amazing. And fully grown. Clean. Cared for. Loved. Safe.
(11) Me? My thoughts remain stuck in your words. Funny how your talk keeps my mind
a prison so much more than prison ever did.
​
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Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. Her work appears in The Coil, The Write Launch, The Popular Culture Studies Journal, One Sentence Stories, and other literary and scholarly journals.

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