Here’s a warning. When I read
You may not think that I’ve given you too much.
That a little girl has pulled on your sleeve
And whispered to you my secrets.
But it’s all about voices.
Don’t feel like you’ve opened the door to the wrong house.
Welcome. Come in.
I want to give voices to the days my
Father drove me around, the car smelling
Like Marlboro cigarettes and doublemint gum.
A voice to the closed bedroom door
And the dark inside.
And those months my parents became
Shallow cretins – how I transformed the
Pain into condolence cards I give
To my audience:
Dear You. If you lived this, I am sorry.

I suppose if you step close enough
You’ll smell the poetry on me. I try my best –
Curling the words so they don’t stick
Out like a cowlick on a baby.
These poems are my rebellion.
They repel Carey’s even threats in high school,
These poems spit up the pills I swallowed in college.
These poems says NO to the unknown hands that touched
A miniature girl who lives behind my womb,
Who sometimes cries, sometimes screams,
Sometimes just sits and stares.
These poems are Disney movies for her to watch.
Dear You. If you lived this, I am sorry.
Wish you weren’t there,
Lisa Marie

So it’s okay if you know a little
Bit more than you ought to.
I’m not embarrassed, I’m not shy. I slice apples
And here, I offer you one in the dark of the room.
It’s sweet. Here, listen. It sings.
Dear You. If you sing too, I am glad.

Words can arm or disarm. Paint or hide.
I’ve been doing this for so long that had I died
I’d still be singing, like that donkey head
Hanging from the tree in Brigid Pegeen Kelly’s poem.
I’d still sing and sing. You’d hear me in your sleep.
Think you’d remembered something.
Dear One, I’m speaking to you.

11/25/2004

Posted on 11/25/2004
Copyright © 2026 Lisa Marie Brodsky