THE EMANCIPATION OF EMMA M
by Bryan Gold
Wednesday, January 09, 2002
Print Save Become a Fan
THE EMMANCIPATION OF EMMA M
To this tape recorder I say:
I am Emma M
and I begin to record
the celebration of my emancipation.
I begin to document
the moment of my liberation.
I enjoy the moment
where the true genesis of my life begins.
Today I proclaim my innocence
forgive all those who have harmed me
intentional or not,
and acknowledge I seek
the serene peace
of a forgiving tranquility.
To this tape recorder I say:
Without equivocation or hesitation
I am moving the long, beautiful and erotic barrel of a gun
towards the side of my head,
like a spaceship docking in space
this instrument of freedom
is being carefully but firmly nudged into a nest of blond hair.
I can feel the weapon almost pulsating with its omnipotent power
as the cold, harsh, penetrating and thrusting steel
nuzzles against my warm, soft flesh.
I can feel my body tingling in excitement
as its dominion and mastery reaches out
to grab and possess me like a lover
engulfs a waiting and wanting vestal of virginity.
I am engulfed in strange feelings,
unknown passions most foreign to me
sweep across my body.
I close my eyes
and feel every quiver of its spreading conquest.
I provide no resistance
and let the fire overpower every fiber of my being.
Oh, how I am enjoying this moment
I am Emma M
and this is the beginning of my emancipation.
I say to this tape recorder:
I have not picked a random spot
for the placement of the gun,
fore the exact placement is the key to my freedom.
Hours have been spent curling and pinning my hair
to form a small funnel –
a woven path of golden hair for the bullet to travel
without the possibility of transgression
It will be a guide-
a protective, prophylactic path
that will insure that the projectile
will be pure
and carry with it only the fibers of MY flesh
as it explodes and penetrates into my soul.
I want no part of the horrible, hostile world
that has brutalized me,
I want not a molecule of the savage province
that has enslaved me,
I want not a microscopic trace of my past life
to lodge inside of me.
I want the life of my death
to be pure
filled with love
and totally removed from the outside world.
I ask that when I am found
like the witch I you have made me to be,
then burn my ashes again
as you would incinerate all the other wasteful by-products
that do not fit
into the scheme of normalcy
that rule the day.
Then I ask
that you take the residue of my essence
far, far out to sea;
as far away from people
that can be done.
I am Emma M
and THIS is my emancipation.
It began for me
on a quiet, still night in July,
on a night like any other night
for a young sixteen year old
making her way home
from her part time job at the mall.
Life had not yet begun
for my mother,
the mother of Emma M,
she was young, innocent
her experiences of life measured
by scattered one line notations
clandestinely scribbled in a small notebook
kept hidden under her mattress.
To her the world was abstract and undefined,
her knowledge of the universe was limited and superficial;
her existence was like a flat rock
skipping across the flat expanse of a lake
engaging the water in a series
of brief and limited contact
before quickly skipping on.
The life of the mother of Emma M
had yet to land anywhere
long enough to get wet with the knowledge
of her own being.
It happened so fast
she had no time to scream
the piece of wood that hit her
knocking her down;
she turned around dazed and confused
and saw a large fist rushing towards her.
When she opened her eyes
she saw a creature of a man hovering over her,
a fountain of siliva
dripped from the corners of his mouth,
his eyes were wide open
beaming with excitement and anticipation.
They were like two laser beams of light
slicing deep into the flesh of my mother’s innocence.
They were like glimmering knives of a butcher
severing away the layers of fat
that surround a piece of prime meat.
Sweat poured from his forehead-
each drop crashing down like a cascade of falling brick,
each driblet hitting the surface of my mother’s soft cheeks
with the impact of a meteor
digging its deep grave into the side of the moon.
The mother of Emma M tried to close her eyes
as if the darkness would ease the pain
and make the nightmare go away.
She cried for her mother
and pleaded mercifully to God
but the pounding, punishing, thrusting percussion
The mother of Emma M was surrounded
by a cacophony of vile and vulgar sounds,
she tried to cover her ears
but the sounds of perversion pierced the air
with a viciousness that loudly echoed in her mind
day after day after day.
And the face….the face,
the conflagration of depraved malfeasance
that showered her in a storm of evil,
It is in the face that she sees
every time she held Emma M. in her arms.
or what ever you can call this miscarriage of human ascension
was always defined as a portrait of HIM!
was always seen as a reflection of HIM!
was always considered to be an incarnation of HIM!
was always treated as a living, breathing extension of HIM!
And the mother of Emma M. knew it,
and the mother of Emma M. would never forget it,
and the mother of Emma M would never let Emma M. forget it.
I was HIM!
I was him
and have been nothing but HIM!
from the moment the mother of Emma M.
permitted the incarnation of HIS! seed to blossom.
I was born and not aborted
because strangers wearing the masks of friends
to cover their faces of arrogance
came into my mother’s house
and with Bibles held high
and crosses shinning bright
they praised the Lord
and cursed the Devil
and demanded that I be given my right to life.
So the mother of Emma M.
gave me life
and no last name.
Then she held me in her arms
and cried when she saw me, she saw HIM!
The mother of Emma M. cried out
but those that came as friends
and prayed for her
had left long before the date of my birth
not even leaving behind redeemable coupons
for their continued love, compassion, prayer and Godly right.
All my mother found
was a pre-recorded message left on her answering machine
that said that a mother’s love was natural
and if she would be a mother
love for her child will automatically come.
I was always HIM!
Not once was I given the love
defined on the answering machine’s tape,
not once was I held again,
But I will get my mother’s love
by killing HIM!
by killing ME!
To the tape recorder I say:
I have killed HIM!
will you cry for ME,
will you love ME
will you remember ME
………………foundly………..lovingly…………like a daugher?
I am happy now
I find peace
and pray for a mothers love
as I pull the trigger…………
(silence fills the tape)
Want to review or comment on this
Click here to login!
Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Click here for your Membership!
|Reviewed by Molly
|I'm so overwhelmed at this moment that my breathing is labored and my hands faintly tremble. I am so very overwhelmed that I can not express my feelings in words, at this moment. I must now go and weep...nay, SOB for EMMA M.. (and myself)|
|Reviewed by natasha
|I agree with Dawn Richardson. The poem is powerful and pierced with the feeling of sympathy and pain for children of rape. I do disagree with Cacilia when she says that the author can't possibly comprehend the horror of rape. The scene of the rape is so real and disgusting that you can almost see for real the ugly stinky monster, a 'creature of a man', a horrible 'butcher' who crushes and slices the innocence. Even the metaphors used by the author depict the horror of rape: "butcher", "slicing into the flesh of innocence", "glimmering knives","a cascade of falling brick", "the deep grave" on "the side of the moon",etc...
Isn't it enough?
|Reviewed by Cacilia
|Forceful and shows what can happen when society deserts those that need help. The majority of children of rape, grow up no worse of than children of divorce. I know a woman who's mother was raped and given up for adoption. Wihout knowing that, she became an advocate for rape victims when she grew up. Therefore I do think this poem shows a one-sided argument. It's also written by a man who can't possibly comprehend the horror of rape any more than he could comprehend the pain of childbirth.|
|Reviewed by Dawn Richerson
|Powerful. I read it twice. Touches on so much. Dawn|