First Haircut

With her thin lips
she kissed Daddy,
Goodmorning.
She hated the sight.
The stale smell of him, and
abhorred the façade.
Madness surrounded those at
223 Deepwood Drive:
Residential death.

At seven, her mother was
working. Daddy had to get
the girl ready for school.
Cursing, he broke a comb, trying to get it through
her waist-length hair.
With a movement that would startle the comatose;
Daddy grabbed a butcher
knife, and ambled over to
her chair.

(1-2-3-4-5)
She faced the wall, lined up the tiles,
attempting purple dreams. Throttled
screams, burgeoning wails
she could direct , into tile accounting.
She closed her eyes tight now,
continued keeping ceramic book, and waited.

Terror-filled like before: would he kill her this time?
Her mind raced and flashed
to the past images. When
spittle flecked her face, welts and blood
decorated her ass. An old waltz…
A dance that never ended pleasantly.

Grabbing her blonde swirls in his nicotine
fist. He muttered and sawed her.
Then the hair,
up to Janet’s tiny neck.
Her tresses had been one of the few things
she liked about herself. The hair
once wrapped around her like satin comfort.
It made her feel safe at 3 AM.
Count girl, count!

(1-2-3-4......)
Another piece of a child died,
piled on the kitchen floor.

Janet Caldwell Sept. 9, 2002
The above text is copyright ©Janet Caldwell, and may not be reproduced without permission.