The Despondent Wife

       When darkness falls, the gloom of life

          Continues to embrace me—I, the

                     Despondent wife.

       There are others out there, just like me,

           Women held captive by fear, and,

                 A sense of lost autonomy.

The battered woman, comes in different shapes and sizes,

         Abusive male counterparts treat them like,

                   Unclaimed game show prizes.

They are women with black, white, red…complexions, 

 Women afraid to leave their dens of torture, dare they

       Bear the burden of, countless other rejections.

Chattels, these women are not, but you’d never know it,

     Because stamped across their hearts and minds

     Are the invisible words, “You’d Better Not Blow It.”

 The battered woman, comes from every known ethnicity,

           Dressed in all manner of ornate disguises,

     Those in complete denial are dressed in simplicity.

  It doesn’t mean anything, to the fellow who’s earned the title, 

                                    “Abuser,”

            ’Cause he’s a dirty rotten son-of-a bit*h,

   Who has no plans to stop his blatant misuse of her? 

She’s your girlfriend, your mother, your daughter, your aunt,

         And dare I mention the other woman in his life,

   The one he glowingly refers to as his, red-boned cu*t.

She’s your common-law partner; the university professor’s wife,

           The Fortune 500 executive’s so-called lover,

   She too struggles with misery, and whole lot of strife.

My fear of him binds me, to a life desperately unfulfilled,

               Evenings spent waiting in limbo,

              For his narcissistic, nightly drills.

     With a sneer firmly in the place, of what should be 

 A loving husband’s smile, he stands with hands on hips

 And legs akimbo, driving my nerves to the very last mile.

He begins his nightly ritual, showing diligence in finding fault,

                 In the wife he has caused to languish,

                  Never once taking blame for naught.

In the form of twenty questions, does he hope for my demise?

                 While the tears begin to well again,

                     In my visibly blood-shot eyes.

I am the person he believes responsible, for his off-and-on

                  Bouts with unpredictability,

         His powerful punches to my lower abdomen,

            Will surely one day get the best of me?

His twenty questions are repetitive—Did I cook, did I wash,

       And did I clean the house from top to bottom?

          Did I remember to rake the leaves of gold

      During that ghastly season known as autumn?

         A place in time, many, many moons ago,

        While as a child he stood frozen in silence,

  Watching his fragile mother receive, blow after blow.

Did I wash, did I starch, and did I press his stylish

                     Phat Farm jeans?

        The word “drudgery” comes to mind,

But he doesn’t have an inkling of what that truly means. 

And “Excuse me,” he says, with false politeness

                        Dangling in mid-air.

           “And what about my dirty, nasty, stinkin’,

Should I dare mention, my Hanes ‘His Way’ underwear?”

      “Yes, darling,” I say lovingly, “I washed, starched,

And ironed those, too.” My answer reflecting just what the

        Typical despondent wife would ordinarily

                    Continue to say and do,

  In hope that someday I will recapture the essence of what

I will never stop believing him to be—the epitome of manhood,   Regality, with an uncommon sense of profound nobility.

    The sneer on his face widens, while presenting his      Last question for the night, He expects me to shudder, to

Be consumed with anger, and, insurmountable fright.

To speak on the subject brings sexual arousal to his loins,

     His red-boned cu*t and his bleached blond hussy,  Their presence in our bed he determines by the

           Mere flipping of two small copper coins.

His perverted sense of sexuality, causes a desire for all

Of us simultaneously to mate, but little does he know if he

Touches me tonight, It is then while he slumbers,

           I will make sure that I seal his fate.   

He blames me, he blames our children, he blames

His boss for his melancholy temperament. He’s not man

Enough to search out his own soul, For fear of recognizing

      That he’s the low-down, dirty-rotten, culprit.                        .

He prods, and he pokes, at my red, black and purple bruises,

            A testament to last night’s beating, a display

Of methods used by men like him, what they, and he uses,

                To keep women like me in line,

                         That is, my body, 

 My spirit, as well as my confused and brain-washed mind. 

           At dawn I awake, the despondency still,

                    A choke-hole does make,

                    Upon my very fragile will,

                       To continue with life,

                                  Yes I,

              The battered, and despondent wife. 

             .

 Thoughts of self-destruction, propel me into motion,

                A thought of a burning hell,                                

                Does not curtail its notion.

   Yes I, the wife, whose material needs are met,

                 Through two-story houses,

        And corporate meetings via Lear Jet.

            Mental collapse is evident indeed,

            A sure sign of the frantic ranting,

       Of a battered woman in utter, dire need.

  Peace in the midst of the storm does not come to a Woman whose plight, has caused her to face another day

Filled with nothing but inexplicable misery, sheer and utter fright.

You enter our lair of proposed peace, love and mystifying

Tranquility, Only to tear down the veil of presumed utopia,

   With the blow from a hand which lays blame to me.

While over my bleeding body you stand, erect, and Ohhhhh,

So very, very tall, gloating with pride in your unbelievable act 

                             Of undeniable gall.

  Your attempts to control me through misuse of power,

           Continue to erode my sense of autonomy,

                           Hour after hour.

        Like a thief in the night, you creep into my mind,

          But tonight into a burning hell I command you,

           Yes, that’s right, you and all your da*n kind!

Copyright 2008 Wanda S. Miller-Berry. All rights reserved.