by Mona Mehas
First Time Camping
I was thirteen, spending summer
in Ohio with my sister
met neighbor girl on playground swing
my eyes opened first time camping.
Her dad drove a station wagon
with sides of brown that looked wooden
excited for weekend planning
my eyes opened first time camping.
Towed a pop-up for us to sleep
station wagon chugged up hills, steep
my friend and I in back, singing
my eyes opened first time camping.
In our seats, we faced the trailer
behind us sat her two brothers
baby on mom’s lap was crying
my eyes opened first time camping.
We played pretend on the long ride
one began, another replied
I used my best understanding
my eyes opened first time camping.
‘Pretend we go into a bar.’
Nothing but silence in the car
‘Tavern,’ I said, ‘Where there’s drinking.’
My eyes opened first time camping.
Bar and tavern were words not known
‘Find another game.’ Her dad’s tone
made me shrink inside, heart clamping
my eyes opened first time camping.
I never guessed my life was so
different, that was quite the blow
her dad gave me my crash-landing
my eyes opened first time camping.
That day forward, I knew the truth
how my upbringing was uncouth
my mom’s habits led to branding
my eyes opened first time camping.
Parentified
Learned a new word at my age, sixty-five
always felt it, always knew, but a word?
Cared for me, cared for her, signed name on checks
Nomad lives hers, and mine, she never heard
my cries when touched, laughing, she said I lied
I was four, shared the bed, I heard their sex
she stayed drunk, my body sick, did not thrive
he left, more came, molest, memories hide
‘til age ten. Why tell? Got tough, hid the truth
Learned a new word at my age, sixty-five.
I chose to fight - my sanity, defend
Kids bullied me, I hurt them, ‘twas my drive
I grew bolder with him there, would it end?
The bullies stopped, my reputation grew
Nomads roam, but each return, I still knew
he was there for years; nothing changed but youth.
Rarely fought, kids all knew I was badass,
at fourteen years, for him I was too dull
Learned a new word at my age, sixty-five.
Catcalls thrown across a street cut like knives
I screamed at him phrases harsh, guttural,
returned home, reticent, cleaned Mom’s vomit
amber whiskey, I drank on ice in glass,
I wondered while she slept, when would she quit?
I’d learned to drink when she’d said, 'Make me one.'
When? Too young to know, dumped the old, fixed new
took sips while I poured, picking up her vice
Learned a new word at my age, sixty-five.
When I was twelve, I did not hide, Mom knew,
by age fourteen, Mom too sick, should be done
My mother said, 'Life is a toss of dice,'
at fifteen, just glad my mom was alive.
Many days on her, I could not depend
I became a thief, cigarettes for friends,
Make-up, beer, wine - anything for money
Had new buddies, a new nickname: Fingers.
Learned a new word at my age, sixty-five,
but nothing lasts for Nomads always strive
other side of street, life might be sunny.
Whose life, I wondered, Mine? Ours? Maybe hers?
Eleven schools before I turned sixteen
then I left to stay with oldest sister,
with my other sister six months later,
seventeen, back with Mom, cleaned last of puke,
sick all the time, whiskey, herself deprived.
Learned a new word at my age, sixty-five.
I lived with my mom ‘til I was eighteen,
met my first husband, her words did rebuke.
My mind made up, Mom threatened suicide,
apron strings I cut, many tears I cried,
she was alone then, inside I felt old.
Three years later the same man still connived
at bus stop, my niece, her friends: I bared teeth,
Mom was there, heard what I’d kept underneath.
Learned a new word at my age, sixty-five.
Her face pale, she asked why I’d never told.
I spewed the words, spoke the truth, my voice shrill.
'Well, honey,' my sister said; Mom looked down,
'I don’t remember,' were her words of shame.
'You were drunk when I was four,' my words spilled
without a thought. She cried, was that my aim?
'At fourteen I cussed him out, I survived.'
Mom remorseful, so was I, room, no sound.
Learned a new word at my age, sixty-five.